Views from the Heights
by Ivy Rangee
Summary: An imagining of Heathcliff and Cathy's childhood relationship. Chapter 13: Baby Birds and the Consequences of Cruelty Part 6 The Law of Enantiodromia - when things have gone to far in one direction they turn into their opposite. Cathy looks for ways to rescue Heathcliff.
1. The Naming

**These characters belong to Emily Bronte. This story is based on Nellie Dean's vague comments in chapter four and the poem "The Two Children" also by Emily Bronte. I've posted the poem on my profile page.  
**

**View from the Heights**  
By Ivy Rangee

**Heathcliff**

**Chapter One: The Naming**

The lost boy didn't know what sounds passed for names in this world of hungry ghosts, but these pale strangers called him 'It', even as they tormented him. They had presumptuously given him that short, harsh name; he knew because, whenever they pointed at him, they said 'It.' Perhaps the odd sound meant something auspicious, but he doubted it. He'd been taught manners before his abduction, so he had tried to tell them his true name; but, in their dimness, his polite introduction had fallen on deaf ears. A fortunate turn of events in retrospect, for when he woke this very morning on the hard, cold floor of the upstairs hallway, he'd remembered his mother's words. Gifting another with your name grants them the power to bind you; be cautious in your confidence. Now, having spent time in this place, he knew without a doubt he should keep his true name hidden from these terrible people who would shun a lost boy.

The master had been angry when he opened his bedroom door to find the boy curled up on the floor blocking his exit. His face red with fury, the old man had shouted as the boy shrank back in expectation of a blow for the sin of sleeping in a forbidden spot. But to the boy's relief it was not he that had erred, instead, the master railed at a maidservant - the same who had scrubbed the boy raw the night before. She bowed slightly and spoke in supplication; the boy could tell by her tone. He even recognized the final word she spoke, master; one of his kidnappers had been addressed in that manner. When the master closed his door, the maidservant dragged the boy downstairs, growling angry sounds. She washed and dressed him, and, when she was done, she boxed his ears until he fell at her feet. Confused by her actions, he wondered why she punished him, and then realized the master must have ordered it. Grabbing his arm, she yanked him to his feet and shook him violently, all the while glaring at him with cruel, angry eyes. When she had sated her rage, she pushed him into the next room where she forced him to sit at the dining table.

Feeling dizzy and ill, the boy rested his head on the table's smooth, cool surface, while he waited alone. After what seemed an eternity, the maidservant returned from the kitchen and set the table, while the boy watched with interest, having no experience of such elaborate place settings. When she left, he picked up the plate she had set before him; in it, he saw the reflection of a battered waif, and he quickly set it back down. An intense longing for his mother brought tears to his eyes, which he wiped away just in time, for the family entered, followed closely by the maid who carried a tray of food, which she placed on the table. The boy cowered in his seat as Missus Earnshaw glared at him with her severe stone-grey eyes. Advancing on him quickly, she crossed behind him, grabbing his ear and twisting with an upward motion, which forced him to sit up straight. The boy scrutinized her as she took her seat at the end of the table, but he immediately averted his eyes when she caught him watching her. With the family seated, the master rang a little silver bell, which brought the household servants, who joined them at the table.

Intense hunger, the result of weeks of deprivation, drove the boy to gluttony as he scarfed down his porridge, not caring that the ghostly people of this dark house frowned at him in disapproval – all except the master, who gently patted the boy's head. After he'd sated his appetite somewhat, he looked up to see the master's son and little daughter pointing at him. They laughed with such derision that he stopped eating for a moment to examine his skin and clothes. Finding nothing wrong except for the fit of the clothes, which hung loosely on his emaciated body, he went back to his food with gusto, this being the most delicious muck he'd ever tasted.

When the meal ended, the maidservant led the boy to the kitchen where she cleaned his face and hands, watching him with a sour expression. He tried to thank her, but she ignored him, shoving him to the door when she had completed her harsh ablutions. She pointed outside to the barnyard, and, pinching him till he flinched, she pushed him outside.

The boy explored the yard, entering the stable, where he whispered to the horses as they nickered in answer. A beautiful brown mare with a white blaze nuzzled him while he fed her hay, just as out of the shadow stepped the old manservant, who slapped the boy's behind, exiling him from the barn. This was the last straw; the boy walked rapidly to the front gate in search of a way out of this hell. Why had the master brought him here, where he was not wanted?

Finding the gate locked, the boy shook it violently. With no other option, he climbed the slats; he would go over it and find his way back to the other place; there he would wait for his brother's return. When he stood on the top rung, he spread his arms and leaped, only to be seized midflight by a grim old workman, who held the boy by the collar, letting him dangle midair. With a captive audience, the old curmudgeon took the opportunity to babble on at the boy in a rough incomprehensible dialect. With relief, the boy heard the master's shout; unfortunately, this was followed by a malignant chuckle as the old workman let him fall. Jumping to his feet, the boy ran for the master, who beckoned him from the front doorway.

Gently taking the boy's hand, the master led him indoors, where they sat together at the hearth. The man put out his arms, and the world weary boy climbed into his lap, grateful for the comfort and warmth. Without warning, the master shouted, startling the boy, but, after a while, a maidservant brought milk and cheese, which the man fed to the child.

With his stomach full, the boy rested against the master, who sang in low susurrations as the boy fell asleep in his lap. When the boy woke he lay alone in a chair by the hearth; he snuggled down, dozing there comfortably, for life in the busy city had been harsh.

The boy woke once again, but this time to blows. The master's son stood above him snapping a riding crop, as he shouted and pointed. "It, It." The boy jumped to his feet and ran only to go sprawling the floor when tripped by the master's daughter, who laughed as she kicked his back. He tried to get away, though it wasn't the physical pain that drove him; he'd suffered much worse. It was their hatred that tormented him.

A new maidservant, different from the one that had left him on the stairs, stormed to his rescue, leading him to the kitchen, where she cleaned him up and gave him an apple. Like the first maid, she took him to the door, where she spoke severely, all the while shaking her finger in his face. Ignoring her, he licked the apple and smiled; it seemed in this hell, rewards could be had in return for pain. He laughed, and ran outdoors, speeding round to the front of the house where the sun shined brightly. There sitting on a smooth, warm rock under an apple tree, he considered his situation as he nibbled the delicious treat.

Later, after an opulent midday meal, an old maidservant dragged the boy and the master's daughter up the back stairs and down a narrow hallway to the little girl's bedroom. Once there she washed their faces and hands, removed their shoes, and then, pointing to the bed, she spoke what the boy thought must be a command. With a squeal of delight, the little girl ran to her bed and leaped, landing in the middle, where she rose to her feet and bounced up and down. The maidservant shouted at her, but the girl giggled, making no move to stop. Shaking her head and clucking her tongue, the old woman led the boy to the bed and shoved him. Unsure of what she wanted, he leaped on the bed, imitating the little girl. But the servant shouted again, and, grabbing him, she pinched his belly very hard, forcing him to lie down. The little girl frowned and lay down as well. Again, the maid spoke harshly, but, undeterred, the child stuck out her tongue, pulling the sides of her mouth with her fingers. With that the servant stormed across the room, slamming the door on her way out.

The boy looked warily at the master's daughter, who stood and, with a malicious smirk, grabbed his hair and yanked. Laughing, she held up a tuft in triumph. His eyes narrowed; much as he would never show how badly that had hurt, so he would pay her back in kind. Grabbing her hair, he pulled, eliciting a yelp. She pounced on him, biting his shoulder, while he pinched her with all his might as he nipped her arm. With fierce, angry eyes, she bore down on him, returning with a hard punch to his ribs, but instead of fighting, this time he got up and went to the far end of the room, where he sat, cross legged, in the corner, ignoring her.

She babbled at him, but he refused to look at her, though he heard her call his name, 'It'. She fell silent, and, after a while, he snuck a glance; she slept peacefully, with her face relaxed into its natural contours, and he thought her the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. He moved in short intervals, closer and still closer, gradually crossing the room, and, each time he stopped his pilgrimage, he held vigil before the child goddess. Finally, he found himself at her bedside, where he knelt with tears coursing down his cheeks, beauty having always been his weakness. Trembling, he reached out to touch her, just as her eyes shot open. She seized his hand, twisting his pinky finger back as if she would break it, but when she looked at his face, she stopped, her expression softening.

Time ceased as they gazed at each other, resuming only when she broke eternity by pointing to herself, carefully enunciating, "Cathy."

He looked at her and cocked his head, perplexed.

She repeated the action several times before he understood, and shyly pointed to her, whispering, "Cat…ty."

She shook her head, repeating, "Cath…eee." Showing him how her tongue touched her front teeth.

"Cath…eee," he said. "Cath…eee, Cath…eee, Cath…eee."

Her triumph sent her into fits of delight as she bounced up and down with glee, clapping her hands. When she calmed, she pointed to herself again, saying, "Cathy."

And he, a quick study, replied, "Cathy."

Elated, she pointed to him. She wanted his name, but he would not give her his true one, at least not yet. Instead, he pointed to himself and said, 'It'.

"It?" she replied.

He nodded his head in the affirmative, "It."

This seemed to displease her as she frowned, pointing at him again.

"It," he replied. "It, It, It, It, It."

"No," she said, shaking her head, and he imitated her.

Cathy jumped to her feet, pacing back and forth, deep in thought. But while she did this, footsteps could be heard in the hallway, and she made a running leap for the bed. Lying down and closing her eyes, she opened them for a moment and indicated through gesture that the boy should pretend to sleep, which he did – just in time - for the door swung open, and in hobbled the old maidservant. He heard Cathy pretend to snore, and he did the same, after which the maidservant closed the door and left. Cathy immediately opened her eyes, laughing through her nose as if she snored still, and he imitated her. This she found hysterical, and she began to make all sorts of rude sounds which he repeated until they heard the door creak open.

The elderly maidservant watched them, her hands on her rotund hips. "Miss Catherine!" she said, her tone severe. The woman continued her angry speech, but the boy did not understand her crude sounds. Cathy paid her no mind at all, instead, she ran to the maid and took her hand, pointing to the servant and saying, "El…sie."

The boy smiled at her impudence and repeated, "E…sie."

"No! El…sie." She ran back to him with her black hair flying and her cheeks aflame, which enhanced the intensity of her remarkable dark eyes.

"El…sie," she said, showing him how her tongue touched the roof of her mouth.

"El…sie," he said with perfect diction.

"Elsie," she repeated, bringing the boy to the maidservant.

"Elsie," he said with a slight bow to the maid.

Cathy and Elsie shared a look of surprise, and then they proceeded to carry on a heated debate, until, with a tragic expression, Cathy turned and trudged across the room, throwing herself dramatically on the bed. Elsie shook her head with the hint of a smile as she pushed the boy. He took that to mean he should go to bed too. Then she closed the door. Cathy brought her finger to her lips, whispering, "Shhh." The boy waited quietly until the heavy footsteps of the departing maid could be heard moving away from their door and down the back stairs to the kitchen. Cathy smiled as she reached for his hand, but her eyes closed, and this time she truly slept. The boy smiled and did the same.

When the two woke, Cathy jumped from the bed, put on her shoes and walked to the door. "Come," she said, waving him to her. He stared at her, sleepy and uncomprehending.

"Come," she repeated, and this time she waved strenuously. He repeated the word and the action, until understanding dawned on him. Expecting a smile, he obeyed her, but she frowned at his feet, shaking her head and pointing to his shoes.

"Shoe," she said, holding one, after she had retrieved them.

"Shoe," he repeated.

"Shoes," she said, placing both side by side. He dutifully repeated – two gets an sss.

"You-put on." And saying this she went through the motions of putting on a shoe.

The boy did as directed, but he could not manage the fastenings; he'd never in his life had shoes with laces. In fact, he'd rarely had anything but rags to cover his feet. When Cathy saw that he couldn't tie his shoes; she sat down on the floor and, with great patience, taught him that very moment.

Dressed and full of energy, they ran to the master's library where she carried on an ardent discussion with her father. The boy knew they spoke of him for he heard the word 'it' repeated many times. Frowning, he realized, Cathy must be telling the master the extent of the boy's ignorance and, expecting punishment, he slunk to a corner and stood in the shadows.

"Boy," called the master.

"It," said Cathy, waving to him. When the boy did not respond, she took his hand and dragged him to the master. The boy did not know why he held back; he had endured much worse treatment than he had so far received here.

The master patted him gently on the head, saying, "Heathcliff."

"Heath…cliff," added Cathy, pointing at him.

"Hea…ciff," said the boy.

"No," said Cathy, a strict and relentless teacher. "Heath…cliff." She sounded it several times as he tried to replicate it. After a period of trial and error, he managed the long, but beautiful sound.

"Cathy," said Cathy, pointing to herself.

"Heathcliff," said the boy, pointing to himself.

"Heathcliff and Cathy," called the master, who reclined in an easy chair, smiling at the two children.

"Maestru," said Heathcliff, a faint smile crossing his solemn face.

The master shook his head as Cathy ran to him, and hugging her, the master said, "Not master, Papa."

"Papa," said the boy; he knew the word meant father. It was so like the word from his language, mpampas. The master took the boy on his knee, and gave him a piece of candied pear, which the boy savored, never having tasted anything so succulent. Not to be left out, Cathy climbed on the other knee and received the same treatment.

With the naming complete, Cathy and Papa spoke for a while, and then the two children left the study, walking through the house hand in hand while Cathy babbled, occasionally picking up an object and naming it. They left by the front door, entering the moor by the very gate Heathcliff had tried to flee over that morning.

Fate had intervened; if he had escaped, he never would have known Papa and better still, Cathy – the best girl ever. He looked to the heavens in thanks, as a warm wind ruffled his wild black hair. He heard Cathy giggle, and then she shouted something, taking off at a run. He laughed too, chasing her through the moors until they reached a rocky escarpment, which they climbed rapidly. When the two stood at the top, they breathed deeply while an east wind gusted around them full of the rich scents of the late summer. From this spot, the two children could see for miles over the harsh and magnificent scenery of the heath, as for the second time that day Heathcliff fell in love.

"Heathcliff," said Cathy several times, walking around the cliff top, and pointing to the heather that covered it.

"Heathcliff?" repeated the boy.

She nodded, and he knew she had named him after this fierce landscape – a name surprisingly close to his true name. Gazing at her, Heathcliff rejoiced in her perceptiveness; Cathy had seen into his soul with acceptance, something he had thought impossible among these hungry ghosts. A keening noise pierced the air and his attention flew to the sky, where, overhead, a flock of small birds careened. He pointed to the sky, but, while the two watched the avian exhibition, a projectile hit one bird, and it fell to their feet.

"Hindley!" said Cathy with ire, nodding to her brother, who stood in the distance with a slingshot. Heathcliff knelt, and, picking up the bird, he watched the older boy do a celebratory dance. Frowning at the display, Heathcliff turned his attention back to the bird cupped in his hand, gently massaging it, as he sang an impromptu prayer of healing. Cathy knelt beside him, observing intently, but she looked up for a moment and then pointed. Heathcliff followed her finger to see Hindley approaching at a trot. He brought the bird to his lips, whispering to it as the spark of life returned its eyes, and it rustled in his hands.

"Heathcliff," whispered Cathy, her eyes glowing in admiration.

The young boy stretched his arms out before him, and, lifting them into the air, he launched the bird. It spiraled above them in search of its mates, just as Hindley drew near. Cathy grabbed Heathcliff and kissed him fiercely. Then she took his hand, and they ran. The older boy chased them, but he was no match for the two, and he disappeared in the distance as they sped like heathen angels over the moor.

In bed that night, Heathcliff lay awake beside Cathy, listening to her gentle breathing. He ran his fingers over his cheek, cherishing the spot where her lips had touched his skin. How long had it been since anyone kissed him? Closing his eyes, his mother appeared, as if through a veil; in the hazy vision it must have been bedtime, for shadows danced in firelight, as she hugged and kissed him. Overcome with silent tears, he realized such recollections came at the cost of unfulfillable yearnings; he would put such things aside, for that was long ago, before his brother and he had been spirited away from the smoky encampment by the Red Bird River.


	2. His Compass Rose

Cathy

Chapter 2: His Compass Rose

Dressed in her lacy white ruffled muslin nightgown, Cathy stretched as a warm breeze entered through the open lattice; she smiled happily, rolling over with eyes still closed and reaching for Heathcliff. When she did not find his warm body next to her in the bed, her eyes flew open and she bolted upright, scanning the room in a panic. He was not there. Had they sent him away? Had her mother finally prevailed upon her father with her constant harping on Heathcliff's strange countenance and odd behavior? She wept at the thought of his absence; she had never met a more worthy or beautiful boy.

Heathcliff had been with the Earnshaws for a month. Cathy knew this because her studies included lessons on the seasons and the cyclic passage of time. Every month she made a calendar with a picture in her own hand appropriate to the nature of the month. Her father required her to research the holidays and birthdays therein. He made her read the almanac so she could mark the phases of the moon and Venus. Too, she had to memorize the names of the seasonal constellations as well as the appropriate farming tasks indicated by their return. Her mother and even some of the more vocal house servants disapproved, seeing no purpose in teaching a girl anything beyond the rudiments of reading and writing. But Mr. Earnshaw was adamant, and, until Heathcliff's arrival on the scene, nothing had thrilled her more than her papa's approval of her calendar, which she would hang on her bedroom wall, so she could track the passage of days.

Cathy nodded to herself; yes, Heathcliff had been with them for only a month, but it seemed to her as if he had always been there, and she would not be without him – ever. She would go to her parents and demand they return him to her at once or she would make them pay. Indeed, she would run away and search the world for him, wandering across oceans, over deserts and through jungles until she found him. It would serve them right for tossing out a lost boy – the cold-hearted monsters!

She dressed, eager to confront them, but when she picked up her shoe, she noticed a piece of paper rolled up like a scroll resting inside. She smiled with relief as she quickly unfurled it. Heathcliff had left her a map with a trail of miniature footprints indicating the path to his location on the moors, which he had marked with an X. In the lower right hand corner he had drawn a compass rose and in the lower left, his signature - a wild haired stick figure of a flying boy.

Heathcliff's love of mapmaking had been the result of Mr. Earnshaw's firm belief in the efficacy of peer tutoring. Thus Heathcliff studied with Cathy, and, unlike Hindley, he threw himself into his lessons with enthusiasm, copying everything she did. Three days earlier her father had assigned them a lesson in cartography: copying a map of England from an atlas. Heathcliff had poured over the book in fascination, mumbling to himself in his incomprehensible language, and, though he had only recently learned to hold a pencil, he had worked diligently on his rendition of England.

Cathy had finished the assignment in fifteen minutes, after which she retired to the window seat with a book on the science of fairies. Heathcliff had taken over an hour on his replication, and when he finished he'd brought her his map. He had frowned at her as she giggled, not at the map, but at his face and clothes which were covered in smudges of graphite. She got to her knees on the window seat's cushion, pulling out her lace handkerchief and wiping away the charcoal marks from his cheeks and forehead.

"Cathy…map…see," he said urgently, pointing to the drawing, apparently anxious for her response.

"Yes, yes…your map," said Cathy, delighted with his amazing progress in English. As it turned out, he learned with facility, and by the end of the first month he could string words together well enough to be understood by everyone. His syntax, however, needed work.

Cathy studied his map in amazement; truth be told it was better than hers.

"Let's show it to Papa," she said, grabbing his hand.

"Indeed, Papa."

They'd threaded their way through the labyrinthine hallways of the Heights to Mr. Earnshaw's study, where they'd found him not at his desk, but sitting at the open window where he gazed absentmindedly at the translucent blue sky of the late September morning.

"Papa," shouted Cathy. "Look what Heathcliff's done!"

Deep in reverie Mr. Earnshaw turned to them, startled. "No need to shout, Cathy. Speak quietly and calmly, as a proper young lady should."

"But, Papa, you see must what Heathcliff has done!"

"The boy hasn't gotten into more trouble with your Mama, has he?"

Cathy frowned. "You know very well Heathcliff did not knock over Mama's inkwell on purpose."

"I wish I could be sure of that; he certainly couldn't be blamed if he did do it on purpose - the way she treats him."

"I'm angry with you, Papa," exclaimed the little girl, stomping her foot. "He did not deserve a beating; Hindley tripped him."

"Did he now?"

"Why do you say it like that? It is as I said at the time."

"Yes, my dear, but you are so fond of Heathcliff. Would you not lie to protect him?"

"Papa! How could you?"

"A young lady does not speak in that manner to her father…now show me what all the excitement is about."

"Heathcliff," said Cathy. The boy stood in a dark corner where he retreated whenever the Earnshaws raised their voices, which, unfortunately, occurred all too frequently.

"Come here," said Mr. Earnshaw, coaxing the boy out of shadows. Heathcliff stared at him with trepidation.

"I won't hurt you," said Mr. Earnshaw, picking up an apple and holding it out to him. Heathcliff crossed to the gentleman and took the apple.

"I would like one too, Papa."

"How much does he understand, Cathy?"

"Everything, Papa. He is quite brilliant."

"Cathy, a young lady does not engage in hyperbole either…What is that?" asked Papa, pointing to the paper Heathcliff held in his hand.

Heathcliff looked to Cathy, who took the map and gave it to her father. The two children watched with interest as Mr. Earnshaw studied it.

"Heathcliff did this?"

"Yes, Papa."

"It is very good for a beginner."

"It's better than mine."

"Let me be the judge of that. Go and get yours."

"No, Papa…I want my apple," said Cathy, shaking her finger at him in defiance.

"Do as I say, Catherine!" And Mr. Earnshaw raised his hand to strike her, but Heathcliff stepped between them, taking the blow himself. Cathy turned tail and ran for her map, even as Papa called her. She hoped he would be over his fit of temper by the time she returned.

Cathy had dawdled for twenty minutes before retuning with her map in her hand. Ashamed of her cowardly behavior, she stood silently watching in the study's doorway. Heathcliff sat in her Papa's lap, resting his head on the gentleman's chest while they both gazed out the window. Papa ran his hand gently over the welt on Heathcliff's cheek.

"Cathy is correct," Papa had murmured. "You are a little genius, just as the broker said. Your nobility, though, is quite unexpected."

Cathy dearly wanted to ask about the broker, but she dare not; Papa would accuse her of eavesdropping, yet another thing young ladies simply didn't do. She'd sighed; she had never seen her father so tender with anyone, and she would have been jealous had it been anyone but Heathcliff.

Since that day Heathcliff's favorite past time had been pouring over the atlas and drawing maps. He especially loved making the compass rose, and, with every iteration, the design had become more elaborate. Together, he and Cathy had made several maps of an imaginary land, Heathcliff called Estotoway. At least Cathy thought that's what he'd said when he pointed at the chart insisting she write the word across the bottom. She loved creating Estotoway with Heathcliff, and the secret world consumed her thoughts as she finished dressing.

"And what are thee dreamin' about, Miss Catherine?" asked the plump kitchen servant, Elsie.

Startled from her reverie, Cathy flinched. "Elsie! You must knock before you enter my bedroom!"

"Aye, I did, but thee made no reply."

"Oh…"

"Did thee wash?"

"Yes," lied Cathy.

"Let me see then."

"No!" replied Cathy, frowning at her and running for the door, however, plump as she was, Elsie got there first.

"Miss Catherine! Stop where thee stand! Thy hair's a nest of rats, and I can tell by thy stink thee has not put soap to skin nor brush to teeth."

"But I'm in a hurry."

"And why is that, Miss Catherine?" asked Elsie, taking the little girl's hand and leading her to the wash stand, where the maidservant poured water from a china pitcher into its matching basin. She removed the upper layer of Cathy's clothes and commenced bathing her.

"I…I have an appointment."

"An appointment? With that bastard gypsy trash? Thee should shun him; he is beneath thee," said the maidservant, holding a toothbrush out to Cathy, who cleaned her teeth and spit into the cup the woman held before her.

"You should not speak of things you know nothing about," said Cathy.

"Brush thy teeth."

"Heathcliff is a prince of Cathay, kidnapped on the China Seas, and held for ransom," said Cathy, handing Elsie the toothbrush.

"Then 'tis curious his father, the king, did not redeem him, is it not, Miss Catherine?" said Elsie, running a brush through Cathy's tangled hair.

"Ow! You clumsy pig!"

"Thee best not insult the one who holds the brush," replied Elsie, giving a good yank.

"You will be sorry when Heathcliff's father arrives. Even now the mighty king's agents scour the world for him."

"Is that heathen whelp filling thy head with these silly notions?"

"How could he?"

"'Tis true, he can barely manage a sentence – strange dark creature that he is," commented the servant, as she braided the little girl's hair.

"Do not speak of Heathcliff that way! I shall tell Papa!"

"Please, Miss Catherine, don't tell thy father. I don't wish to follow in the footsteps Nellie Dean."

"I shall hold my tongue, but should you insult Heathcliff again in any way…"

"I'll wait on him as on a prince; I promise thee."

"Did you bathe him this morning?"

"I did, but I had to deliver him a good clout so he would stand still."

"You may not strike him!"

"Aye, Miss Catherine."

"Where did he go?"

"He took bread and an apple then ran out on to the moors shouting, 'Tell Cathy come,'" said the maid, tying a green bow at the end of each of Cathy's black braids.

Her ablutions complete, Cathy went to closet and took a hiking sack from a hook on the back of the door. She walked to a shelf and placed a few toy figures in it then she handed it to Elsie.

"Please fill this with food and water for the day. I'll meet you in the kitchen momentarily."

"Aye, Miss Catherine, but have thee forgotten 'tis Sunday; you will miss dinner and the mistress will punish you."

"I don't care!"

As soon as she heard the maidservant trudging down the stairs, Cathy ran to the sewing room where she rifled among the folded bolts of silk and muslin. Deciding it unwise to abscond with one of these; she went through the remnants where she found three good size pieces of silk in various colors and patterns that suited her purposes. She folded them carefully, and stuffed them under her dress. Then she took the back stairs to the kitchen, hoping to avoid her family. Tiptoeing down the stairs, she reached the landing where she stopped when she heard Cook and Elsie conversing.

"Did thee see Nellie Dean?" asked Elsie.

"Aye, I did; you watch, the mistress will have her back," replied Cook.

"Truth be told, she's like mold in a cupboard; thee could clean 'til the end times, and it would still return."

"She'd bring ruination to the end times," laughed Cook.

"Indeed!" said Sophie with a giggle. "But I never did see how the mistress could manage without her."

"The mistress is right helpless when it comes to them two wild bairns o' hers."

The two servants shared a hearty laugh.

"And now a third," said Elsie, when she got control of herself.

"The master's dark little bastard," pronounced Cook, gravely.

"Where did thee hear such talk?"

"So they say in Gimmerton. The master got a bairn on some gypsy seer."

"'Tis hard to fathom. That wolf pup's looks nothin' like Master Hindley or the master."

"Aye, since he plumped up he's a right beauty," observed Cook.

"Maybe he favors his ma; our master's not much to look at. Surely, the cub got the luck there."

"Indeed, at least he's not an ugly bastard."

"How is it such a comely woman t'would bare with our master?"

"Tis said those women of the southern climes right crave it."

"Not like us."

"Nay."

The two women worked in silence for a few moments while Cathy pondered what 'it' was.

"'Tis rumor - nothing more," said Elsie firmly. "The master is a worthy man, known for his goodness. Thee best not repeat such gossip."

"'Tis Nellie Dean spreads it – so says Joseph."

"I'll never fathom how thee can grasp what comes forth from that man's mouth. Speaks in tongues he does."

"I've known him a right long time, Elsie. I trust him, though he be a pious wantwit. He says he heard her gawpin' at that church meetin' he 'tends so regular."

"So, she blackens the Earnshaw name, the little witch."

"Tis revenge for her sackin,'" replied Cook. "T'were I that gypsy cub, I'd fear for me very life."

"Thee speak the truth; that Nellie Dean may be ugly as sin, but she's smart as a whip and cunning as a snake."

"Tis like Joseph says; thee cannot look at her without blinkin.'"

"Tis true," giggled Elsie. "But mark my words, like the snake in the garden; Nellie Dean will crawl back into this household - probably with the aid of Master Hindley."

"No doubt he will use her to hurt the wolf bairn; for all her wit and cunning, she's right foolish when it comes to Master Hindley – believin' he fancies her."

"Do not let her hear thee speakin' thus or she'll be whisperin' t'was one of us first spoke those rumors," said Elsie in a low voice. "Take my advice and utter no more of her or the wolf bairn."

"I must say tho', I've watched that wolf bairn careful like, in fear he'd steal me very soul. But he seems no different from any other bairn."

"Tis a wolf in sheep's clothing."

"Thee talk nonsense," said Cook. "We know him to be a wolf, and even a lost wolf pup longs for his mama."

"Now thee art makin' me sorry for him. But why doesn't he go home?"

"Like all bairns, his memory's short, and now he's Miss Catherine's."

"That will not please the likes of Nellie Dean," worried Elsie. "T'was her place to companion Miss Catherine."

"Not anymore. Miss Catherine has found herself a faithful pup."

"Aye but she's as fond o' him as he is o' her."

"There'll be no breakin' those two apart," pronounced Cook.

Cathy tiptoed back up the stairs, seething; she did not care for the way the two women had talked of her and Heathcliff. In truth she did not understand a quarter of what the two servants had said. But she would not tell anyone what she'd heard; she'd be punished for eavesdropping, though she did not really understand why. It was something she'd watched Nellie Dean do all the time at Hindley's and her mother's behest.

Cathy was of two minds in regard to Nellie – she could be clever and fun, but she could be mean and violent too. Cathy hadn't missed Nellie at all – not one iota. Heathcliff's companionship was so superior; Nellie had not crossed her mind even once. All and all she wished Nellie would stay away especially if she was intent on helping Hindley harm Heathcliff. Nellie's nasty revenges were so tricky and subtle that Cathy, with her straightforward nature, had always fallen prey to the maidservant's treachery.

Having by this time reached the top of the stairs, Cathy started down again, but this time she sang and skipped so as to warn Elsie and Cook of her approach.

"Miss Catherine," said Elsie.

"Is my pack ready?"

"It is. But what have thee got up under thy dress?" asked Elsie, holding out the full pack.

"Nothing!" replied Cathy, grabbing the pack and running gleefully for the kitchen door. "Tell my Papa; Heathcliff and I shall return at sundown."

Cathy ran out the gate and onto the moors, ignoring Elsie's shouts, admonishing her to put on her bonnet and to return in time for Sunday dinner. The fecund scent of the warm, late, summer air vivified Cathy as she dashed madly over the heath stopping only to check Heathcliff's map and to stuff the silk hidden under dress into her pack. Puddles dotted the ground, and Cathy leaped over impromptu streams formed by the heavy rains from last night's late season thunderstorm. She and Heathcliff had danced on the bed while the storm's gale winds blew through the open lattice. Later they watched forks of lightening brighten the landscape to daylight - until Elsie had caught them and closed the window, scolding them as she mopped up the rain water. But the moment Elsie left, they pulled the lattice open and breathed in the clean rain soaked air.

When the rock escarpment came into view Cathy saw Heathcliff waving to her from the top, and he took her breath away as she watched him leap down the rocky trail. His agility and grace struck her as otherworldly. He seemed to fly over the rocks like an elemental spirit. She so wished she could match his skill, but, though they understood each other perfectly, they did not poses the same abilities. They were bound by something stronger than sameness. In truth they were more like complementary halves, that together made a single entity.

"Come, Cathy – sprise!" Heathcliff shouted as he flew. She could see he was covered in mud. And where were his shoes?

"Sur…prise," she corrected.

"Surprise," he said when he stood beside her.

"Where are we going?"

"You see."

"You_ will_ see."

"Yes…yes. Will see."

"Are you hungry?"

"En deed."

"Say it properly."

"Indeed…thank you…please."

"Let's climb to the top of Hedawe and have breakfast." Hedawe was Heathcliff's name for the rock escarpment.

"Hedatiwi! Say proper!" he corrected.

"Hedatiwi?"

"Aye, indeed."

"Not aye…yes. Let's go."

"But surprise."

"Aren't you hungry?"

"Indeed…so hungry…but wait…surprise one."

"Surprise one?...Oh, surprise first."

"Come."

Heathcliff led her deep into the moor, farther then her parents allowed. She could not fathom how he'd found his way out this far as he took a sandy trail that led to the higher elevations of the heath. Cathy had been out here once or twice with her father, but never alone, and she wondered at the hauntingly beautiful, unfettered landscape that welcomed her. They climbed to the top of a broad flat plateau, continuing on this high plain for a mile until they overlooked a deep gully, and that's when she saw it. Now she understood why Heathcliff had sought a location so far from the Heights. If Hindley saw this he would sack it.

Using a small stream flush with rainwater, Heathcliff had constructed a system of waterways using mud, rocks and pebbles. He had even built little houses out of twigs and the leaves of bushes.

"Estotowe!" said Heathcliff, holding out his arms out and spinning around.

And as she looked more closely she realized it was Estotoway; he had made a three dimensional replica of their map. Cathy climbed down into the gully, examining every detail.

"Oh, Heathcliff…it's beautiful."

Cathy reached into the pack and brought out the toy figures. Together they placed them in Estotoway's central plaza. After that they climbed up and down the gully, sailing the dry leaves Heathcliff had gathered from under Joseph's fruit trees over the waterways like tiny boats all the while whispering to each other stories of Estotoway with its royalty, nobility, gentry, military, outlaws, heroes, villains and lost children.

The two children never ate breakfast or lunch, instead they entered their imaginary world completely, but late in the afternoon hunger overtook them, and the need for nourishment could no longer be denied. Cathy climbed to the top of the gully where she laid out a meal on a low flat rock, and that is when she brought out the soft, shiny silk cloth from her pack.

She made Heathcliff sit down while she washed his face and hands. After appraising his cleanliness and finding him passable, she wrapped a piece of turquoise silk around his head like a turban just as she imagined a prince of Cathay might wear it. Then she tied a silk cape around his neck and another around hers, pronouncing the two of them king and queen of Estotoway.

Heathcliff danced in delight, and she joined him. But after a few moments he stopped, watching her in his solemn way. She wondered what overtook him, as she had seen his mood change suddenly before. But when she asked him, he said nothing; instead, he walked to her shyly, his hands in his pockets. When he reached her he stood for a moment staring at the sandy earth, and then he kissed her cheek while pulling two necklaces from his pocket.

In truth they were leather thongs with flat stones on the end. But, when he handed them to her, she saw that both stones were inscribed with a compass rose. On the first necklace, the center of the directional circle had been carved with the stick figure of a girl with long braids and a silly smile, while under her feet lay the initials C.E. In the center of the second, flew the stick figure of a wild haired flying boy with an H underneath. She placed the necklace with her likeness ceremoniously around his neck and returned the kiss. Then she handed him the other, and he did the same for her.

Later that night in bed, after they had both been scrubbed and severely punished, Cathy wrote the names and stories of two of the most important inhabitants of Estotoway in a small notebook with the help of Heathcliff. When they were done, she turned to him, taking his hand and whispering, "Truly, you are the best boy ever."


	3. Cathy's Seventh Birthday, Part 1

**Heathcliff**

**Chapter 3: Cathy's Seventh Birthday, Part One  
**by Ivy Rangee

In the very early morning on the Feast of Lughnasadh, Heathcliff sat alone on a bench in the sitting room, swinging his muddy, bare feet. He sang quietly, trying to remember the melody of his native birthday song so he could surprise Cathy.

"Aliheligi nihi,  
Aliheligi nihi,  
I'm happy it's your birthday.  
I'm happy it's your birthday…"

Since his arrival at the Heights eleven months ago, Heathcliff had forgotten a great deal of his native tongue, but he found he could recall it easily through songs and poems, which he often sang under his breath. This sometimes led to trouble, but, fortunately, this morning, the rest of the household hadn't risen just yet, so there was little chance that Joseph would strike Heathcliff for 'makin' queer, devilish chants and musics' as the old fart put it. Heathcliff laughed out loud. Old fart – that's what Cathy called the manservant, and it fit him so well. Cathy was so exceedingly clever with nicknames, and, truth be told, everything.

The sun cleared the horizon very early during the summer in these northern latitudes, waking the birds whose songs of morning wove their way into Heathcliff's dreams, bearing him to consciousness at first light. This morning, along with the bird alarm, the boy had woken to the tantalizing odors of early harvest, carried on a light, warm breeze that played with the window curtains as it drifted through the open lattice, enticing him to the moor. All alone on his sleeping pallet, he'd stood, opening the door of Cathy's brand-new wardrobe bed to make sure she was still there. Last night had been only the second night he'd been without her beside him since he'd come to the Heights, and he'd fallen asleep in despair. Transfixed, he'd watched her for a few moments as she slept and then, closing the door noiselessly, he dressed, making for the heath to prepare his surprise for his queen's seventh birthday jubilee. And that was how he'd gotten in his present grimy state. He examined his hands. Not bad, he'd managed to get them pretty clean, but the rest of him not so much.

It struck Heathcliff that Mrs. Earnshaw would have him whipped for coming to table in such a state. But what could he do? Ever since the mistress had realized that he always woke first, she had forbidden him the freedom to explore the house until the servants rose. The formidable woman had given him two options: sit on the bench by the sitting room fireplace or stay in his bedroom. He considered going to the bedroom, but Cathy still slept there. When she woke, she would take one look at him and guess that something special waited on the moor. Then she would commence with her incessant questioning until she wheedled his secret out of him. He found her impossible to resist – well, almost.

No, he would have to risk Missus Earnshaw's wrath for appearing at breakfast covered in mud, but what if the old banshee, as Cathy referred to her, used this excuse to ban him from Cathy's birthday party? He'd heard the mistress complaining to Papa the night before. She'd said the other children's parents had expressed doubts about attending the party, saying they loved Cathy, but they did not want their children around Heathcliff. Hearing this, the boy had pressed his ear to the door even as he wondered why. Why did everyone hate him? Why was he always excluded? When Papa had said he didn't put stock in the opinions of ignorant provincials, the mistress had gotten angry. That's when Heathcliff found out it was because he was a dirty, gypsy, heathen bastard. He'd heard these words before, and, though he didn't understand much beyond dirty, he could tell the words meant something bad. Papa had gotten furious; Heathcliff had heard his Papa's fist slam the desk when he told the mistress to hold her tongue, but she ignored him, shouting that she did not want to see that foul boy's face anywhere near Cathy's guests. Obviously it would be tempting fate to come to breakfast in his current muddy state. It would be proof that he was indeed bad.

Deep in distress over his grimy condition, Heathcliff shook in fear; the mistress would use any excuse to keep him from attending the party that was clear. The clinking of pots in the kitchen woke him from his grim prognostications, and that is when a solution to his problem dawned on him, though it was a deal with the devil. Nellie Dean must be the one making all that noise, since her duties included preparation of the morning beverages and bread. Heathcliff would go to her and promise not to tell on Hindley next time the teenage thug abused him; in return, Nellie would have to agree to help Heathcliff bathe and dress properly for the party.

The child bit his lip; he would pay dearly for such a stupid bargain. He'd made a similar deal once before, and his foolishness had led to disastrous consequences when Nellie and Hindley had planned and exacted a terrible payment. But he would do anything to attend Cathy's birthday party. He'd never been to one before, though he had watched Hindley's earlier that summer, from an upstairs window. There had been music, games, sweets, cakes, presents, and most thrilling of all a magician with a monkey that could pick pockets.

Knowing that the rest of the household would soon come downstairs, he rose from the table and tiptoed to the kitchen, hoping Nellie would still be alone. Silently turning the doorknob, he pushed the kitchen door open just a sliver, to see the chubby, adolescent maid, Nellie Dean, bustling about the kitchen preparing tea and coffee. He slipped into the room, and continued to watch her, wondering whether he should go through with his plan, and just how much he would regret it if he did.

Nellie made her way to the fire place to remove the heavy black cast-iron kettle from the hearth, but when she turned to go back to the table, she gave a startled little scream.

"Good Lord in Heaven, you startled me, skulking about like a thief," she said, staring at him crossly. "I almost dropped the kettle. Why do you do that, Cuckoo?"

"I...I…I'm sorry; I needed to speak with you. Privately, Wink… er, Miss Ellen," gulped Heathcliff. He had almost called her Winkey, Cathy's moniker for the homely maid. As a rule Heathcliff disapproved of Cathy when she created nicknames based strictly on physical appearance, but he made an exception in regard to Nellie, whose ugly features matched her devious heart. He had learned the hard way that whenever Nellie treated him with respect or kindness to expect the worst.

"So formal, Master Cuckoo. What are you up to?"

"I…"

"And look at you," she laughed. "You'll be in for it when the mistress sees you. I shall look forward to the beating you'll be getting."

"Umm…well…"

"Well what, you dirty, little beggar? You may fool the master, but I know what you are. You conniving fortune hunter."

Puzzled, Heathcliff gazed at Nellie. "What fortune, Nellie? You mean like pirate treasure?"

"Idiot, go ahead; play innocent! But I can see the calculation in those evil black eyes, Cuckoo."

"Nellie Dean!" said Mister Earnshaw, standing in the kitchen doorway, with a bundle under his arm.

"Master!"

Heathcliff ran to Mister Earnshaw and took his hand with gratitude and relief. This was not the first time Papa had exhibited the uncanny ability to show up at just the right time.

"If I ever hear you speak to Master Heathcliff in that manner again, you will be looking for another position!"

"Yes, Sir, Mister Earnshaw, but…"

"I don't want to hear it. Prepare him a bath before your mistress sees him or else."

"But, Sir, I have my morning duties to complete, and there is a great deal to do today. I have no time to give this child a bath."

"Are you disobeying my orders?"

"No, Sir. I'm just explaining why I cannot care for that boy. Perhaps, the upstairs maid can tend to him in his room."

"Do you wish to keep your position at the Heights?"

"The mistress has assured me that I shall always have a position here."

"Did she?"

"She did, Sir."

"And who pays you?"

"The mistress."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Then you may be surprised to know that it is I who approve the household budget and provide for your salary. Further, I have the right to hire and fire whomever I please regardless of the mistress' promises. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Now, prepare a bath for Master Heathcliff."

"As you wish, Sir."

"And where is my coffee and roll? I must see to the entertainers. They'll be arriving soon."

"Just a moment, Sir."

"Come with me, Heathcliff my boy," said Mister Earnshaw, leading the child to a small table with chairs under the kitchen stairwell. "We'll have a man to man discussion of world affairs over a cup of coffee. Nellie Dean, bring Master Heathcliff coffee-milk and a buttered bun."

Nellie flounced about the kitchen, making no attempt to hide her irritation.

"Are you trying to get sacked?" said Mister Earnshaw with a wink to Heathcliff.

Heathcliff shifted his gaze just in time to catch the teenage maidservant shoot a glance of utter malevolence at Mister Earnshaw. The boy's eyes widened in fear; never had he seen anyone show such malice toward Papa. Mister Earnshaw followed Heathcliff's gaze to the perpetrator.

"Look at me like that again, and you will find yourself working in the threshing room for the entire harvest. Now apologize to Master Heathcliff and me."

"I'm sorry, Mister Earnshaw."

"And…"

"Master Heathcliff, I'm not myself today. If you will overlook my disrespectful behavior this time, I shall endeavor to improve," said Nellie, placing a cup of coffee-milk and a bun before the boy. Her look of sincere apology did not fool Heathcliff, in fact he found it rather scary.

"Apology accepted, right Heathcliff?"

"Yes, Papa," Heathcliff said with trepidation.

"And, Nellie, if I hear the nickname Cuckoo from anyone's mouth, I shall blame you. Now prepare his bath, and dress him in this new suit I've had made for him for this very special occasion," said Mister Earnshaw, handing the bundle of clothing to Nellie.

"Yes, Sir."

"What shall we talk about, my young lord?" asked Mister Earnshaw, enthusiastically.

"What is a heathen bastard?" asked Heathcliff, after taking a sip from his cup.

"Good Lord, where did you hear that? Did someone call you that?"

"Indeed."

"Who?"

"Lots of people."

"I see. Well now, er, let me think; how can I explain this?"

"You had better undress, Master Heathcliff. Your bath is almost ready," interrupted Nellie. Heathcliff watched as relief washed over Papa's face.

"But my coffee and bun, Papa? And what about heathen bastards?"

"We'll talk definitions later. Go ahead and finish up, but do hurry, the performers for Cathy's birthday party will be arriving any minute to begin their preparations for this afternoon's performance, and I will need your help directing them."

"Really, Papa?"

"Would I deceive you? I simply cannot do this without your counsel."

"Will there be a magician with a monkey?"

"Oh, this is so much better than that charlatan. Wait until you see."

Heathcliff gulped down the last of his coffee-milk, after which he stripped quickly.

"Heathcliff, come here!" ordered Mr. Earnshaw.

Puzzled, Heathcliff walked to the master. "Who did this to you, boy?"

In the excitement of Cathy's party, Heathcliff had forgotten Nellie and Hindley's mischief of the night before. That, and he had grown accustomed to living in a constantly battered state. He glanced at Nellie, who squinted venom at him.

"Do not look to Nellie Dean for an answer. Was it Hindley?"

Heathcliff could not tell the master the truth; he had taken Hindley's abuse for Cathy's sake. If he told, Cathy's transgressions would be revealed, and she would be punished severely. He tried to make up something, but he was hopeless at lying.

"Heathcliff?" said the master severely.

"It was Joseph," interjected Nellie. "He caught the boy chanting under his breath."

"Did I ask you, Nellie Dean?" said the master, standing and brandishing his cane.

"No, Sir," said Nellie, cowering.

"Is this true, Heathcliff?"

Heathcliff had entered a state beyond fear and time where he questioned the nature of his life with these strange hungry ghosts. Mister Earnshaw searched the boy's face, and his expression softened.

"I understand, my boy. You have a good heart and don't wish to get anyone in trouble, but I shall have a talk with the perpetrator later. Why would anyone beat a child so severely?"

"Joseph fears the child's chants are witchcraft," said Nellie.

"The fool!" fumed Mister Earnshaw. "They are children's songs in the boy's native tongue."

His eyes filling with tears, Heathcliff looked at the master grateful for the gentleman's understanding. "Papa."

Mister Earnshaw smiled at him, running his hand over the child's wet cheek.

"Take your bath, my boy. We have a very busy day before us. And, Ellen, apply black drawing salve to his wounds lest he fall ill."

"Yes, Sir."

Relieved, Heathcliff ran to the tub, and, without testing the water, he hopped into the steaming hot bath. He leaped out immediately with a barely audible whimper after scalding his feet and legs.

"What's the matter, too hot?" asked Nellie, her voice sickeningly sweet as she poured a bucket of well water into the bath. "Let me cool it for you, Master Heathcliff."

When Heathcliff was groomed and dressed in his fine new clothes, he and Mister Earnshaw walked toward the stables as Joseph led their saddled horses to the front gate, all the while grumbling about the seeming glamour of sin in the playground of Satan. Mister Earnshaw looked to Heathcliff and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Joseph, that will be enough! If you do not wish to attend this afternoon's performance you may see to your duties instead. No one is forcing you to enjoy yourself."

"Ye ha' brou' the dark en' to yer ver' hearth. Ye will li' to regre' it."

"Who are you to judge, Joseph?" asked Mister Earnshaw, as he turned to Heathcliff. "Shall we ride to the hilltop and watch for the caravan, my boy?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Open the gate, Joseph."

"Thi' demon will bring ye low. Mar' me words."

"Joseph, resume your duties," said Mister Earnshaw, walking his horse out the gate with Heathcliff close behind.

"Why do you keep Joseph, Papa?" asked Heathcliff once they were mounted and out of earshot.

"That is a very long story, but in short I owe him a debt of gratitude that can never truly be repaid."

At a gentle canter the two riders made their way to the hilltop that overlooked the Heights where they watched for the caravan that would bring the wandering circus. Heathcliff slipped his feet from his stirrups and stood on the saddle.

"Do be careful, boy."

"What is a circus, Papa?" asked Heathcliff, ignoring the admonition.

"You will see soon enough."

"Papa, look on Gimmerton Road - a dust cloud."

"What excellent powers of observation! Shall we ride down to greet them?"

"Yes, Papa," said Heathcliff dropping into his saddle and galloping off.

The two met the performers at the signpost indicating the turn off for the Heights. Heathcliff rode to the back of the caravan and then returned to the front where Mister Earnshaw spoke with a man in a dusty top hat.

"Did you see the horses, Papa?" asked Heathcliff. "They're very fine."

"Do not interrupt your elders, boy."

"Yes, Papa."

"And who is this, Mister Earnshaw?" asked the man in the black top hat.

"This is my ward and trusted associate, Master Heathcliff. Master Heathcliff, this is the ringmaster, Mister Philip Astley."

"Ringmaster?" asked Heathcliff.

"Yes, that is what the master of a circus is called. Now, greet Mister Astley properly."

"How do you do, Mister Astley?" said Heathcliff with a slight bow of his head.

"Very well, thank you, Master Heathcliff. And you?"

"Fine, thank you, Sir."

"I hear that you are an excellent rider."

"How?"

"A little bird told me. Will you show me?"

Heathcliff looked to Mister Earnshaw, who nodded his head in agreement. Delighted at the chance to show his skill, Heathcliff took off up the hill. When he gained some distance from the caravan, he turned back and, at a gallop, leaped to a standing position on his saddle. When he drew close to his audience, he veered to the left, dropping the reins and flipping backward into a momentary handstand, after which he seated himself. Tying the reins short he hooked one foot through for purchase, and then, reclining as if he rested on a comfortable couch, he pretended to light and smoke a pipe.

With a quick glance in the caravan's direction, Heathcliff saw that the performers had halted, and all eyes followed his exhibition. He pulled himself back into the saddle, and then after standing, he back flipped onto the horse's rump where he caught the reins with one foot, and he rode about in a circle with his hands in the air. This brought a sound round of applause as the ringmaster waved him back.

"Well, Master Heathcliff, that is some of the best riding I've ever seen, and your horse is very well trained.

"Thank you, Sir," replied Heathcliff, resting his chest on the horse's mane and patting her affectionately.

"I wonder if you would help us settle our horses once we've reached our destination."

Heathcliff looked to a beaming Mister Earnshaw for permission and once again received it.

"Indeed, I would be most grateful. I'd love to have a closer look at your horses, Mister Astley."

The caravan meandered up the hill, reaching the flat upper moor just above the Heights as the call to breakfast sounded. The performers tethered the horses and walked to the farmhouse's kitchen courtyard, where tables had been set up for an outdoor meal. The lively group of performers took to Heathcliff and insisted he sit with them. Cathy tried to join them, but her mother stopped her, but as soon as the woman turned her back the birthday girl slipped away to find a seat beside Heathcliff.

"Happy Birthday, Cathy," smiled Heathcliff. "You look like a queen."

And indeed Cathy did, dressed in an expensive gown of shimmering gold brocade woven with a grape leaf design over which she wore a white lace apron. Someone had painstakingly braided her hair, weaving flowers and lace into it.

"I'm so uncomfortable, Heathcliff. This dress is hot; there are at least ten petticoats underneath. Mama insisted I wear a stay instead of a jump, and it's poking me everywhere. Is that a new suit? You look like a prince."

"Yes, from Papa."

"Let's run away and go swimming."

"But Cathy it's your birthday," protested Heathcliff, though the prospect sorely tempted him. The breeze had dropped as the day grew warmer, and he too wore several layers of clothing, though his were cotton and not silk.

"I'd rather spend the day alone with you," pronounced Cathy.

"What about the circus?"

Cathy shrugged, and then her eyes lit up. "Where have you been? I looked everywhere for you."

"With Papa. He needs my help directing the performers."

"What are they like? Tell me everything."

And Heathcliff did just that.

"You are so lucky to be a boy," said Cathy.

"I'm very glad you're Cathy, the best girl ever, and later I shall prove my undying devotion to you."

"What do you have in mind?"

"You will see. Birthdays are about surprises; you taught me that."

"I know your present will be the best."

"After breakfast I must help with the performer's horses, but then I'll come down to the house."

"Alright, but remember all you see, and tell me every detail."

"As you command, My Lady," said the boy, kissing her cheek.

Just then there was a call for quiet, as Mister Earnshaw stood, holding a glass of wine.

"Today is my lovely daughter's seventh birthday. Let us drink a cup to her health! Happy Birthday, Catherine!"

"To the young lass!" shouted the crowd.

"It is also the Feast of Lughnasadh, which we celebrate in honor of the sun god as the harvest approaches, and he journeys farther and farther from us, ever southward, ever homeward for his winter rest. And what is Lord Lugh's wish? That we honor him by remembering his beloved stepmother, Tailtiu, the royal Lady of the Fir Bolg, who found him, after he'd left the sea to wander the earth forlorn - a lost child. Tailtiu raised him as she would her own son with generosity and kindness. Let her be an example to us all. To Queen Tailtiu and Lord Lugh!"

"To the royal lady, Queen Tailtiu! To Lord Lugh!"

"The Sun of Lugh rises high in the sky," sang Mister Earnshaw

"But His strength is waning," answered the gathering.

"Bless the harvest with abundance to weather the darkening winter," they sang in unison as Catherine and Heathcliff slipped off to the barn, where Heathcliff sang Cathy the birthday song he'd practiced earlier that morning. She clapped her hands and kissed his cheek, whispering her undying love in his ear just as Mistress Earnshaw grabbed her and handed her off to Nellie, who smirked at Heathcliff as she twisted Cathy's arm.

"Run! Heathcliff, run!" shouted Cathy, struggling with Nellie, who pulled her from the barn.

But the mistress had seized Heathcliff by the hair, and now she slapped his face, all the while glaring malevolently at him. "Stay away from my Catherine, you filth, or you will be sorry," she said in a low growling voice, as she cuffed his ear and threw him to the floor.

"Come away Heathcliff, there's work to be done," said Mister Earnshaw from the doorway.

"I had better not see his face at today's party, Husband," said Mistress Earnshaw, turning on her heels and striding to the barn door.

"Come, my boy, stand up," said Mister Earnshaw, helping Heathcliff to his feet. "The company here is most distasteful!"

Mister Earnshaw brushed the dirt and hay off Heathcliff's clothes and smoothed his rumpled hair.

"Why are you crying? That's not like you."

"What is a heathen bastard, Papa? Tell me; I can change, and then people won't hate me."

"Heathcliff…you are a fine boy…it is not for you to change."

"But Papa, if I'm like other children, then the mistress will like me. She will be happy to have me at Cathy's party."

"Do not seek to remake yourself in return for such trifles. It is unbecoming and futile."

"But this is Cathy's party; I must go."

"Put aside your anxieties, and leave things to me; you will go, my boy. You will!"

"But how?"

"Did I not say leave that to me? Now, you promised you'd help the acrobats with their horses. And didn't you want me to see those fine beasts?" asked the master, repeating Heathcliff's words even as he brushed the small boy's tears away.

"Yes, Papa, I do."


	4. Tairneach and the Fortuneteller

**Heathcliff**

**Chapter 4: Cathy's Seventh Birthday Party,  
Tairneach and the Fortune Teller**

"Your pockets are bulging, my boy. What have you got stuffed in them?" asked Mister Earnshaw, as he and Heathcliff trudged the rough track to the upper moor.

"Apples," said Heathcliff, taking one from his pocket and munching on it.

"Do you really need so many?"

"Indeed – for the horses."

"So we're feeding their horses, too."

"We are," replied Heathcliff just when the two crested the hill, taking in the frantic activity of the harried circus performers as they set up benches and a ring.

Heathcliff smiled in amusement, his tears forgotten, as he watched some of the acrobats run across the moor, trying to catch several horses that had gotten free of their tethers. One in particular managed to stay out of reach. The horse, a tall, muscled black stallion, played his pursuers time after time, letting them approach to within a few feet, and then, with a shake of his beautiful head, he would canter off, farther and farther onto the moor.

Heathcliff could not take his eyes off the horse, believing he could read the animal's thoughts, as the stallion stopped suddenly, nodding his dark head, while a sudden gust of wind ruffled his mane; he seemed to be laughing at the ineffectual efforts of these puny humans.

"Do you think they will ever catch that beast? Or will he make his way back to the sea and Tuatha de Danann?" asked Mister Earnshaw.

Heathcliff did not reply, wondering whether the horse would be better off if it did make its way back to the kingdom in the sea. Just then one of the pursuers managed to get a rope around the animal's neck, but the beast reared, and with a shake of his noble head, he tossed his would-be captor in the air as if he were a fly.

"That's Tairneach; he has a mind of his own, as you can see," said Ringmaster Astley, who had joined them unnoticed, engrossed as they were in watching the horse torment his inept handlers. "He is quite dangerous when provoked; his trainer passed away, and no one has been able to manage him since."

"Tairneach? That means thunder?"

"Indeed it does, Mister Earnshaw."

"Do you think you can handle the poor creature, Heathcliff?"

"I can, but I need a horse."

"May the boy borrow one of your tamer animals?"

"I cannot allow this, Mister Earnshaw. That animal could kill the boy."

"I'll make you a deal, Ringmaster. If this boy can subdue that horse, you will let me buy it from you."

"If your boy can tame him, he can have him; that animal is a terror. I was going to sell him to a knacker."

"Did you hear that Heathcliff? They plan to make feed of him."

"I did, Papa."

"Go get yourself a horse."

Heathcliff walked to one of the tethered horses, and, after gently removing its hobble, he leaped onto its bare back. The boy rode at a calm cantor toward Tairneach, who now charged his fleeing, terrified pursuers. When Heathcliff had gotten between the frightened men and the furious horse, he slowed his ride and sprung to the ground, taking a moment to feed his horse an apple. He did not face Tairneach directly, but at an oblique, watching the horse from the corner of his eye as he slowly moved sideways towards the creature; all the while the boy murmured a quiet song. The horse watched him, but made no move. When Heathcliff was within six feet of the noble animal, he removed another apple from his pocket and continued his song.

Tairneach charged him, but Heathcliff, unmoved, took a bite from the apple, humming his chant as he chewed. The horse slowed, circling him, finally coming up from behind and attempting to take the apple by nipping at Heathcliff's hand, but the boy spun, facing the beast, even as he hid the apple behind his back. The horse seemed taken aback and sidestepped in an effort to seize the tempting fruit. Whispering nonsense in his native tongue, Heathcliff reached out an empty hand, as the horse tried to bite him. But the child stood his ground, and after what seemed an eternity of defiant glances, Tairneach gently touched the boy's hand with his muzzle. Heathcliff let him do this for a few minutes, after which the boy stroked the animal's forehead, giving him the apple. Then abruptly, Heathcliff turned to walk away, but the horse followed him, catching up and pushing him from behind with such force that the boy lost his balance, almost falling. Catching himself, Heathcliff turned, facing the horse with his hands outstretched as the animal nuzzled him, looking for another apple.

Heathcliff rubbed the horse's neck, producing another apple from his back pocket, and, feeding it to the animal as he sang him the birthday song. While Tairneach chomped happily, the boy ran his hand along the horse's side and rump, walking completely around the animal's muscled torso, finally, coming face to face with him again. Continuing his low mantra the boy took the horse's mane and swung onto his shinny back. Tairneach stood thoughtfully, while Heathcliff rubbed his neck and sang to him of his beauty and nobility, which seemed to move the horse as he commenced dancing from hoof to hoof. After a few moments, Heathcliff nudged the animal with his heels, and, holding the horse's mane, the two rode across the heath, in a wild ride that Heathcliff would never forget. They flew over the moor as one being, leaping over obstacles, as they rode higher and higher to the top of Penistone Craig, where they paused to survey their kingdom.

Returning a half hour later, his face glowing, Heathcliff slid off Tairneach and rubbed his hand down the horse's brow as he called for a brush and towel to wipe the incredible creature down.

"An outstanding display, my lad," beamed Mister Earnshaw, joining him, followed closely by the Ringmaster.

"Thank you, Papa."

"You have an amazing gift, young man," said Ringmaster Astley. "I guess I'm out a horse."

"I insist on paying you, Mister Astley," said Mister Earnshaw.

When Heathcliff had settled Tairneach down, Mister Earnshaw sent him off to help the acrobats with the rest of the horses. The athletic young men surrounded Heathcliff, slapping him on the back, as the boy found he had achieved celebrity status among the performers. With the horses saddled, the acrobatic riders sat Heathcliff down for a private show, which involved some very fancy riding. When they had completed their rehearsal, they asked Heathcliff to join them, and he spent the rest of the morning learning riding tricks.

Several hours later, when the sun stood high in the sky, Heathcliff walked hand in hand with Mister Earnshaw, making the rounds of the small circus to ensure all was ready for the performance. Cathy's guests had already arrived, and later that afternoon they would make their way from the house up the path to watch the horseback acrobats, tumblers, ropewalkers and clowns.

Five colorful booths, their cloth drapes and flags rippling in the mild breeze, stood outside the performance ring; four of them consisted of games like ring toss or nine pins where winners would receive slivers of sugared fruit as a prize. But the fifth booth had a tall, narrow sign painted with the Hanging Man sigil from the Tarot, and inside a fortuneteller plied her art.

Heathcliff had seen the dark, mysterious woman earlier that morning, when she'd beckoned to him, but he had avoided her. Now, he watched as she stepped between the tent's waving drapes, and returned his gaze.

"Go on, Heathcliff, the seer will tell your fortune," said Mister Earnshaw. "Have no fear; it's all in fun."

"No, Papa, I'm going to find Cathy."

"Later, perhaps, after the festivities are in full swing; for now you will do as I say or play by yourself."

Heathcliff looked at the master, who avoided returning the child's gaze, and with that Heathcliff knew the searing pain of betrayal. All of Papa's words had been lies. Mister Earnshaw had given into his wife.

"Why can't I play too?" asked Heathcliff. "Is it because I'm a heathen bastard?"

"Do not speak like that, boy, or I shall cuff you. Now, go to the fortuneteller; I'll find you there in a little bit."

Heathcliff frowned at the older man as he ripped his hand away and stormed across the waving grass to the fortuneteller's tent. Tears fought to gain the light of day, but Heathcliff held them back; he was as good as any other child – better maybe – he might be a king's son.

Upon closer examination, the fortuneteller turned out to be a beautiful young woman, who wore an old-fashioned deep blue silk gown with flowing sleeves and a paisley scarf wrapped tightly around her slim hips. Over her braided black hair, she wore a matching turban, adorned with several pheasant feathers, which were held in place by a red jeweled broach.

Heathcliff stopped in front of her; his face red with anger.

"What a handsome little man. I can tell by that fierce expression that you are the infamous Heathcliff."

"How do you know my name?" he demanded.

"I'm a fortune teller. It's my business to know; besides, you're a celebrity. Please, come in."

Heathcliff followed her into her tent, surprised at its opulent carpets and draperies.

"Sit," said the young woman, pointing to a table and chairs. "My name is Mistress Nuri."

"How do you do, Mistress Nuri," replied Heathcliff with a bow.

"What delightful manners, but call me Nuri. Tell me; how did someone of your nobility come to live in a place like this?"

Heathcliff glared at her. Was she making fun of him?

"What a frightening gaze; you are a strange boy. But come on, tell me. How did the likes of you come to live under the roof of English gentry?"

"I don't remember."

"And I don't believe you. But sit down, and I'll tell your fortune while we wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Didn't your master tell you?"

"Tell me?"

"You will be the star of the show. The ringmaster and acrobats are very impressed with your horsemanship. Few men have ever ridden Tairneach, but you, a mere boy, managed that stallion quite handily. Thus you will have a place in today's show."

"How?"

"Do not worry; the riding master will come for you soon. The other riders have already shown you what to do."

"But…"

"You will wear a costume and a mask - only those capable of understanding your true nature will recognize your identity."

Heathcliff smiled. "Did Papa arrange this?"

"Papa?"

"Mister Earnshaw."

"Is he your Papa?"

"No."

"How did he come by you?"

"You are the fortune teller."

"You do have me there. Have you any questions you wish answered?"

"When is my birthday?"

"You don't know when you were born?"

"Not the precise day."

"What season?"

"The first thaw when snows melt then freeze again, just before Lord Lugh begins his reign."

"Well that would make it February or possibly early March. Pick a card! And give it to me."

"These cards will tell you when I was born?" said Heathcliff, handing her a card.

"Ah the ace of cups – a very auspicious card, even though it is reversed. So how about either February or March 1st?"

"I need my real birth date, not a guess!"

"Why?"

"I…because…"

"Ah, I see you want a party too."

"Maybe Papa would give me a party, but he can't without the proper date."

"Even fortunetelling has its limits."

"I've never had a birthday party."

"Maybe you will someday, but console yourself with this knowledge; there are many people who go their whole lives without a party of any kind. These rich English children are spoiled, and, because of that, life will disappoint them, and they will be a disappointment to their species."

"Not Cathy!"

"Cathy? The guest of honor?"

"Yes!"

"Well, there are exceptions to every rule. Now shuffle the cards, and I shall read your fortune."

Heathcliff did as he was told, watching the beautiful woman lay out the Tarot cards before him. She lapsed into deep study, and after a while she shot him a piercing glance.

"You are too young to have so many enemies, but you do have a guardian who loves you, though his motives are murky. Too, you are one of the lucky few who inhabit the same world as your counterpart."

"Cathy?"

"I'll describe her. Her dark hair and eyes sparkle when she becomes animated, which seems to be her constant state when she's with you. She's athletic, smart and very lovely. She is full of life, and shares your interests. You do not have to talk to hear each other. She understands your heart, and loves you for who you are."

"That is Cathy."

"Yet your road is filled with obstacles, because, though you have everything you need to make a wonderful life, you have enemies in both high and low places because you are not of this world. And for this, some despise you and work ill against you, though you are a mere boy."

"What shall I do?"

"You should escape and try to find your way home. But you will not because of your weakness."

"Weakness?"

"You are held here by a boundless love greater than the seven seas or the star filled sky."

"Cathy."

"Yes, I can see that," said Nuri, getting up and crossing the tent. She opened a large trunk and rummaged through it until she found a small charm. "You have not told her your true name?"

"No."

"But…" said the clever woman.

"I have taught her the word; she has yet to realize it's my name."

"You must never tell her it's your name," said the mystic, walking to a small chest of drawers and removing some waxed cord.

"But why?"

"It is hard for the women of these northern climes to be true to their natures; Cathy, like most of them, carries the mark of a coward. These women have been conditioned to fear destitution and desertion so they obey without question the dictates of this dark society which enslaves them with pretty babbles. She will have to struggle, but she is very strong willed. However, it is unclear whether her true nature will prevail."

Nuri took out a piece of corkboard and pinned the waxed cord to it. Weaving the charm into the cord, she made a necklace.

"Come here, Heathcliff, don't be afraid."

The young boy did as he was told, allowing her to unbutton his shirt and remove his tie.

"What are these marks? Did the master do this?"

"No."

"Who?"

"The master's son, but you mustn't tell."

"Why?"

"Because of Cathy."

"You are protecting her?"

"Yes, these hungry ghosts are severe in their punishments."

"That is very true. Was it the master's son alone?"

"No."

"Who else?"

"A maidservant."

"You have more to fear from the servant than the master's son, but tell me which one is he?

"He's fifteen, but other than that he looks just like Papa."

"Good to know. Now listen, little one, only you may wear this," said Nuri, placing the charm around his neck and sliding it beneath his undershirt. "It will help ward off some of the ill will I see around you."

"What is it?"

"A wolf charm carved from lapis – perfect for you. They call you the wolf bairn, do they not?"

"Indeed."

"The wolf is a very noble creature, and you are a noble lad; I wish you would come away with me."

"But what of Cathy?"

"I pray your Cathy claims her diamond in the rough," she said, holding his chin and looking him in the eye.

"What do you mean, diamond in the rough?"

"Never mind," said the seer, releasing him as she pulled a card from her pocket and handed it to him. "On the off season I live on the outskirts of Liverpool; here is my address, should you ever need help or a place to stay."

Heathcliff examined the card; it was beautifully inscribed with her name and address, handwritten in a sweeping calligraphy surrounded by a thicket of rambling roses. On the other side, someone had done a meticulous line drawing of the Hanged Man.

"Nuri, we're ready for the child," came the voice of the ringmaster from outside her tent.

"Ah, my dear child, the ringmaster calls; life goes on. Listen carefully to me; I have one last thing to impart. It's a sort of prayer."

"What, Nuri?"

"Hold on to what is yours, even if it is only a handful of earth.  
Hold on to what you believe, even if it is a tree which stands alone.  
Hold on to what you must do, even when it seems impossible.  
Hold on to life, even when it is easier to die.  
Hold on to the one you love, even when you are no longer together."

Heathcliff touched the fortune teller's hand. "I'll remember. Thank you, Nuri."

* * *

Nuri's advice comes from a Pueblo blessing.


	5. A Secret Meeting

**Mister Earnshaw**

**Chapter 5: Cathy's Seventh Birthday: A Secret Meeting**

"Mister Earnshaw, please sit down," said Mistress Nuri, pointing to a cushioned chair next to the oval table in her comfortable tent. "The ringmaster will be here soon."

"Thank you, Mistress Nuri," said the master of the Heights, settling comfortably as Nuri served him a thick dark tea. "So, tell me, what do you think of my lad?"

"Your lad?"

"Heathcliff, woman! Heathcliff!"

"Ah, Heathcliff…he's a treasure. Wherever did you find him?"

"Well, now, it all happened because I took a walkabout to Liverpool."

"No lies, Mister Earnshaw. I sense truth, like a compass finds north."

"Mistress Nuri, my dear…"

"Come, come, Mister Earnshaw, have confidence in my discretion."

"I suppose… you've come highly recommended."

"By whom?"

"A dear friend, Mademoiselle Amelia."

"She's a gifted seer; the trait runs through her clan."

"Indeed she is; she saved my life."

"How so?"

"She warned me."

"Warned you?"

"Of a fatal but latent illness – at first I mocked her. I found Amelia's salon one night many years ago, as I wandered the streets of Liverpool, searching for entertainment. I was forced to stay over night, since I'd sold the winter season's wool crop and would not collect payment until the following morning. I entered her establishment on a whim - to pass the time. Since then, I always visit her when business takes me to Liverpool, and, I must admit, 'tis many a lively time we've shared. But on a trip, almost two years ago, she warned me of an impending illness, and, fool that I am, I laughed at her. Her predictions had always been accurate, but vague; I placed no importance on them. However, a month after her prognostication the symptoms manifested, just as she described."

"Yet you live."

"Thanks to a scientific man in Liverpool."

"But why did you seek treatment in Liverpool?"

"That apothecary from Gimmerton is a superstitious git, not to mention a gossip. I sought treatment from a specialist in Liverpool, where I found modern scientific methods and, above all, secrecy."

"But how did you come by the boy?"

Mister Earnshaw stood and with his cane searched Nuri's ample quarters, lifting the draperies and looking under tables and chairs.

"Mister Earnshaw?"

The master of the Heights held his finger to his lips for silence as he slipped out of the tent, circumnavigating it, and returning.

"Are you confident that we are alone, Mister Earnshaw?"

"I swore I would take this tale to the grave, Mistress Nuri. My actions have been shameful, but I hope what I do today will rectify my mistake."

"What do you mean?"

"My medical treatment has required much of me."

"I'm so sorry, Mister Earnshaw."

"Do not be; its success has bought me another ten years or so. Instead, rejoice as I do. Except for Amelia, I would be in the cold dark ground under that dour kirkyard, yonder; instead of here, as I am, talking and laughing with you on this bright and lovely summer afternoon. Now where were we?"

"Heathcliff."

"Ah, yes, the doctor prescribed a great deal of exercise in the fresh air, so instead of riding, I would walk to Liverpool every three months for my therapy, and while there I always visited Mademoiselle Amelia. It was on one of these visits that she foresaw the demise of the Earnshaw family and the loss of the Heights."

Nuri looked sadly at her folded hands, saying nothing.

"Have you seen it too?" asked Mister Earnshaw.

She raised her head and gazed gravely at him.

"It broke my heart to hear it. The Heights has been the home of the Earnshaw family for close to thirty decades - to know that my son would be the last and the one to...well, that is why I fought so hard to live."

"But Mister Earnshaw, what has this to do with Heathcliff?"

"I asked Amelia if there were a way to change this fate, and she said there was. But it would take an act of imagination she didn't think me capable of."

"And what is that?"

"She said that I should leave the Heights to my Catherine. Can you imagine?"

"Yes."

"You can?"

"Of course, in many lands women own property."

"But Catherine…she's such a naughty, precocious girl, and what of Hindley, eh? How would he react?"

"Yet, Mademoiselle Amelia recommended this."

"Indeed, she did, but I cannot see my way to bequeath the Heights to Cathy. She is very intelligent and an excellent student; however, she is stubborn, mischievous and naughty in the extreme. You know she vexes the servants with threats of witchcraft when she doesn't get her way. Perhaps I could see it if she were more sober."

"Maybe she would calm down if you put more trust in her. On the other hand are these not character traits you would value in a boy?"

"Perhaps, but it is too late I think - now that Heathcliff is in her life – she grows more wild by the day. I should never have brought him into it."

"Why did you?"

"When I refused her first solution, Mademoiselle Amelia suggested adopting a boy to train as an overseer of the estate, leaving Hindley titular master …"

"And how would that work?" asked Nuri, prompting the master of the Heights, who had lapsed into deep thought.

"She saw Hindley as an aberration…" he replied, staring at the carpeted floor.

"Why did you believe her predictions?"

"It made sense when I considered it. Hindley is weak."

"We're all weak, in our own ways; aren't we, Mister Earnshaw?"

"I suppose, but, when Hindley suffers a setback, he becomes negative about everything, moping about for days, taking it out on everyone while engaging in no end of destructive behavior. I fear how he will react when faced with a real tragedy which, in life, is inevitable. Whereas, Heathcliff has already been through more than most, yet he makes the best of every day. Though he broods at times, he seems able to compartmentalize his feelings, for he carries on in spite of any hardship."

"So you plan to use Heathcliff to manage the estate until your grandchildren come of age. But what if your son should sell or lose the property?"

"I intended to put a clause in my will stating that my property, including the Heights, may only be sold to Heathcliff."

"Can you do that?"

"I can, but I cannot leave this to that local gossipmonger, who calls himself an attorney. The entire countryside would hear of it, and my wife would…"

"Have you legally adopted Heathcliff?

"No, my wife…"

"Why not betroth Heathcliff and Catherine?"

"My wife would never agree to it. Besides, such a match would invite scandal."

"Why?"

"He is not of her station, and you have seen him. People would not accept such a union, though I regret it; I would cherish such a son-in-law. I wish most fervently that he, and not Hindley, were my son."

"I see; you need go no further. You're using him."

"That was my plan, but, now I that I have grown so fond of him, I see how I've wronged him."

"How did you find him?"

"Through a broker."

"You purchased him?"

"Well, yes…but only because I saw no other way. However, nothing has gone as expected."

"What happened?"

"I told the broker what I needed: an exceedingly intelligent and self-sufficient child of at least twelve years, physically strong, with a love of the outdoors, good with animals, etcetera."

"You can specify?"

"Indeed, but it costs more than the customary two shillings [48 cents]."

"Two shillings – for a child?"

"A normal child of Romani, African, or American descent."

"But Heathcliff cost more?"

"Of course, he is exceptional; he cost three pounds [$6.00]."

"Because he fits your needs?"

"For the most part, he is quite brilliant; though he spoke no English, he learned our money just from watching the broker."

"But Heathcliff is nowhere near twelve…"

"Listen, and I'll explain all…well, perhaps it is better to say I'll tell you what I know."

"What a cryptic remark."

"Indeed, and soon you will understand why. A few months after my initial inquiry, I received a letter from the broker, indicating she had found a clever boy. I left for Liverpool immediately, as she intimated he'd garnered a great deal of interest, and a bidding war seemed imminent. However, what I found when I made my way to that damned place shocked me deeply."

"What do you mean?"

"I followed the broker's directions to a dissolute warehouse district on the waterfront, but I could not find the address she indicated. After walking in circles for hours, following the misdirection of various dock workers and sailors, I came upon a ragged, malnourished bairn and offered her a shilling to lead me to the address in question.

"The little urchin tried to steal the coin, but I sternly informed her that she would only be paid if and when she took me to the place I wanted to go. Do you know she swore at me like a stevedore? I gave her a good clout for such unladylike behavior, after which she mumbled something rude, and attempted to make a run for it. However, I cunningly pulled a sweet bun from my pocket, offering it to her; that turned the tide.

"Thus appeased, the little ragamuffin waved to me to follow her. I do not mind saying, I feared for my safety, following that strange child, but she took me to the proper address, which as it turned out lay down a narrow, malodorous, filthy alley. Once there, she held out her hand, disappearing the moment she received payment, and leaving me utterly alone in that terrible place.

"A mottled note by the decrepit door indicated that I should ring the bell and wait patiently to be let in. It took several minutes, and as I waited I became aware of a grating squeak overhead. Looking up, I saw a sign swinging on rusty hinges over the door; the weathered paint made the figures indistinct, but as the late morning sun crept down the alley, I discovered a faded landscape. In the foreground, two fish swam in opposite directions across a wide river. On one side of the river a city flourished, on the other a deep forest grew thick, overhanging the water's edge. It struck me as most curious, and I had just noticed a man waving from a small boat in the middle of the river when the door opened.

"The broker's manservant, Cager, a greasy, giant, lumpy creature, who I don't believe had bathed in his entire adult life, stared at me, one eye shut tight as smoke from the small pipe he puffed encircled his head. He waved me in, and we walked down a garbage-filled, damp corridor; I shall not attempt to describe the odor – suffice it to say it left me quite light-headed.

"The hallway opened into an enormous warehouse, which, thankfully, had several broken windows. I say thankfully because I felt on the brink of a faint, and the bracing sea air cleared my head. Once out of the fog of my weakness, I surveyed the room, and what I saw I shall never forget. Lord forgive me for not doing something about it sooner than I did.

"Mister Earnshaw?" said Nuri, touching his hand, as he leaned on her table holding his head, a tear coursing down his ruddy cheek. She handed him a handkerchief, and, when he had composed himself, she asked him what he had seen.

"Pallets lined the floor in neat rows, perhaps twenty of them, and tied to them by their ankles were children of all sizes. Their frightened, hungry eyes stared at me accusingly. And all I could think of was my Cathy and Hindley, and the horror of such a fate befalling them, but, though guilt and anger roiled in me, I kept my composure, knowing a show of weakness at this point might mean my demise.

"Cager led me diagonally through the maze of pallets to an enclosed office. And though I knew he could bring me before the magistrate for what I planned to do, I raised my cane anyway, and struck that brute a hardy blow to his giant cube of a head, for as he walked by those unfortunate bairns he kicked and struck them.

"He turned and shouted at me, rubbing his head, but undeterred I hit him again. This brought the broker from her office, and, when she saw the situation, she berated Cager for his lack of manners in the presence of a paying customer, ordering him to apologize to me, which he did, but I tell you, I watched my back for months after that incident, such was the way he glowered at me.

"I entered her office wishing I had never undertaken such an idiotic endeavor, but then I saw him, a small, dark figure sitting on a chair swinging his dirty bare feet while he counted money and sang in an exceedingly strange language. He held his pencil like a knife and made slash marks on a sheet of paper for each column of twelve shillings he had piled.

"Beaming at me with her toothless grin, Madame Grimsley, the broker, asked me to be seated, and signed to Heathcliff to bring us tea which, in truth, was the last thing I wanted. As the boy climbed down from his seat, I had a good look at him. He appeared much younger than the age I had expressly indicated, and his physical condition – well he seemed about to drop he was so thin and worn and ragged; I questioned his health and whether he might expire before I could get him to the Heights. But when he stood before me holding my tea, and I clearly saw the dark welts on his face and arms, I decided to pay whatever it would take to remove him from that squalid place. I could not deny my heart, which screamed to me that I would burn in hell if I did not save at least one of these lost children.

"I inquired of that heartless woman his age, and, when she informed me that he was five or six, or possibly even seven, I reminded her of my explicit request for a child of at least twelve. Thus began a lengthy story regarding a child she believed to be Heathcliff's older brother, who had run away just the night prior.

"I watched the boy's face as she told the remarkable story of his older brother's brilliant escape during the routines of the late afternoon meal. He seemed to comprehend the topic of our conversation for I saw both a smirk on his lips and a tear on his cheek. The old hag went on to explain that Heathcliff had tried to run off with his brother as well, but Cager had caught him, since his little legs could not carry him as fast or as far as his older brother's.

"She assured me that although younger, Heathcliff was the smarter and the better behaved of the two siblings. In her experience, she opined, he was by far the better buy, and a bargain at four pounds six. I waved at him to approach, but he backed away, obeying only after a rough shove from the old crone. When finally he stood before me, I gave him a good looking over as one does a horse – teeth and all. Madame Grimsley protested, but I knew this to be customary, and I continued to examine him for worms and other diseases that I did not wish to bring to the Heights.

"The nervous old woman fidgeted with her quill, while I carefully checked the child's wavy black hair for parasites. I must say he stood quite patiently for me, as if he were used to being fussed over, and so deep was our concentration, that Heathcliff and I both flinched at the sound of her chair scraping the cobbled floor as she stood and began pacing. After a few moments, she turned, glaring strangely at me, and, though I had made no derogatory comment in regard to the child, she dropped the price to three pounds six.

"At that I sat back in my chair to consider – his cost was too high considering his state, though, truth be told, his basic condition seemed quite robust. He had obviously been well cared for prior to his enslavement. So why, I wondered, had she discounted the fee?

"It was then I began to ponder who he was and where he came from, so I asked her. First she claimed she had procured him with a group of continental gypsies, but when I asked what language he spoke, she could not give a rational answer. Truly the language was odd, like nothing I'd ever heard before or since. He held his lower jaw forward when he spoke, making many sh and ka sounds. Too, he spoke softly and slowly with heartfelt sincerity as if he considered every word he spoke carefully.

"I asked to see his procurement papers, but she claimed they had gone missing. So this was why she'd dropped the price. I should have gotten up and left then, but instead I considered the child's plight. What if he had been stolen? What if his family searched for him? What, I wondered, if this were my child, would I want done for him? Then I felt the light touch of his battered hand on my sleeve, and my heart went out to him. I examined him once more, and, just as I stood to close the deal, she lowered the price to three pounds, which I accepted, immediately, wanting nothing more than to retreat from the premises.

"I paid her and took the child's hand to leave, but he would not budge. Turning to Madam Grimsley, he shouted at her in his peculiar language. She signed to him, but he shook his head in the negative, stomping his foot, after which she cuffed him, knocking him to the floor. Her violence only increased his obstinacy as he curled into a ball.

"I asked her the nature of the problem; she lied, stating he wish to remain with her. But after consideration, I understood his dilemma; he feared leaving that terrible place because how else would his brother find him? I instructed her to tell him that if his brother returned I would buy the older boy and bring him to the Heights as well. After she finished signing this to him, he stared at me intently and then obeyed, taking his place beside me. I took this as his agreement to accompany me, and we crossed the sea of palates, fled down the dank hallway and out the door.

"Once outside, I took the boy's hand, quickly making my way out of the city. The sun shown past noon, and I was due home that night. We had walked for perhaps one hour when the boy began to lag behind. I turned to admonish him, but realized I had forgotten to ask his name. Believing he must be named in the papers Madam Grimsley gave me, I pulled them out and read through them. Something I should have done before signing them, since what I saw now infuriated me. The contract simply referred to him as Boy X; about six years old; name and origin unknown; dark skin, black hair and eyes; excellent condition.

"Angered by my stupidity, I paced back and forth, considering whether to return; the situation being simply unconscionable. But when I turned to call the boy, I found him resting on his back in the tall, soft grass at the side of the road. He gazed into the bright blue afternoon sky, all the while smiling and pointing at the clouds as he sang to himself. It was then I let it go. Soon enough it wouldn't matter; that woman would be out of business and her captives free.

"Watching him thoughtfully, I noted his emaciated appearance and realized how hungry he must be. So I took my place beside him, offering a small piece of meat pie from the pocket of my great coat. He sniffed it and looked quizzically at me, after which I took a bit and ate it. Apparently deciding it was safe to consume, he stuffed the entire piece in his mouth, attempting to swallow it whole but choking instead.

"After he recovered, I helped him, parsing out small pieces of pie between sips of diluted wine. His belly full, he lay down in the grass and napped, while I partook of the forbidden - a bowl of excellent tobacco. I had purchased it as a gift for Joseph, but I supposed he wouldn't mind if I dipped into it. Heathcliff woke, and thus both revived, we recommenced our journey.

"The child seemed in high spirits; to him, the contrast must have been great; he had been confined to that squalid, urban warehouse in the dead of summer for god knows how long, and now, as we traveled farther onto the moor, he could run free in the clean, fresh air. He would speed far ahead and then return to me bearing treasures. He did this many times, until his energy faltered, but I could not afford to stop for rest, so I gave him a juicy green pear, which he savored, getting it all over his face and hair.

"It was at this point we heard the whistling of what I believed to be a ringed plover, though the eerie pitch and extreme length of the call confounded me. With that call all grew strange, even the atmosphere changed as heavy, dark clouds covered the heavens at an alarming speed. Concerned that a thunderstorm approached, I called Heathcliff to come to me as I planned to make for the Dragon Knight's Tavern to wait the tempest out. But the boy ignored me, stopping dead in his tracks; he cocked his head, listening intently, and then, when the call came again, he took off up the road.

"I tried to catch him, but slowed in frustration, unable to keep his pace; he's a remarkable athlete, as you have seen. However, I followed his trail easily, until the winds intensified to such a degree that dust devils whipped all around me, erasing his tracks. I kept on though, and, when I came upon a breach in the tall grass, I took it, believing this to be the place where he veered off the road. I followed the path made in the downtrodden grass as best I could for a gale wind intermittently blew the long grass flat.

"The trail led me up a hill into a grove of old oak – no place to shelter from a thunderstorm, but as yet, I'd heard not even a ghost of a rumble. Under the swaying branches and whispering leaves of those giants, the trail went dead. I'd decided to leave, but catching a flicker of bright light, I turned, facing it directly, but saw only the arcane, venerable oaks. In the meantime, a heavy rain had begun to fall, and I thought it might have been lightning I'd seen, yet as I waited, I heard no report of thunder; so I stayed in the oak grove until the brief downpour ended. When the rain stopped I continued up the hill, believing I might catch sight of Heathcliff from its summit. Turning three hundred sixty degrees, I stopped facing northeast, where I caught sight of an extraordinarily clear double rainbow. I could not tear my eyes from it, watching it until disappeared.

"With twilight descending, I found my way back to the road, but stopped upon hearing low whispers. Thinking it might be Heathcliff I called out 'boy,' to a resounding silence. Resolute, I went on alone, believing I'd lost him, but overcome with fear for his well-being, I turned back and searched the area once more. Truth be told, I'd already grown quite fond of him. His resilience astonished me, especially in comparison to Hindley, who will whine and weep over the most minor of impositions. Then, too, the boy's love of nature warmed my heart. As we walked to the Heights, he'd brought an odd assortment of worms, insects, spiders, owl pellets and even a field mouse for my inspection. I enjoyed the company of such a curious boy, who didn't tremble at the sight of the creatures of the earth as my Hindley does. I have to say, he did remind me of Cathy, who would sooner climb a tree and view a birds nest than wear a silken dress.

"Searching until well after sundown, I gave up, and I made my way heavy hearted to the Heights. I cannot tell you how lonely I felt as I plodded home. In a matter of a few hours, I had grown accustomed to that child's companionship, and I truly missed him. When I reached the outskirts of Gimmerton, thankfully, the gibbous moon rose, shedding its silver light, for it was now past eleven and full dark. I thought to skip the town road and take a deer trail to the Heights. The track, though rougher and steeper, would save me a good half hour, and the moon provided more than enough light. But, as I approached the trail, a young man emerged from the shadows, advising me to avoid that route, with a warning that spirits walked the moor that night.

"Who are you, I asked, for I did not recognize him, and, truth be told, his pronunciation was not local. A good fairy, he answered, with a cynical laugh, walking into the light. I could not see him clearly, even by the moon, but from what I could make out, he very well could have been fairy folk for his look was odd, indeed. I asked his name, and he replied that even if he revealed it I would find it unpronounceable.

"Fear took hold of me. Strangers are not common in Gimmerton; I wondered whether to believe him. It occurred to me, he might be a bandit scout as he came near, and I grasped my cane tightly, ready to strike him. However, a closer look at him fascinated me, for though his aspect was indeed otherworldly, yet he was, at the same time, utterly familiar, and I decided to heed his words.

"Once again, he informed me to follow the road to my home and not the deer track; otherwise, he said, all would be lost. He knew my name and that of the Heights; I know not how. But walking past me, he bid me a farewell, and climbed the deer track himself. I stood transfixed watching him, and for a moment, he seemed to flicker just before disappearing into a stand of tall poplars. Shivering, I turned to go, but stopped when I thought I heard whispers and a woman's laughter. At that sound, panic gripped me, and I made my way as quickly as possible through Gimmerton, to the turn off for the Heights. And that is where I found Heathcliff sleeping by the road. I tried to wake him, but he lay in a slumber so deep no amount of shaking woke him. I wrapped him in my great coat and lifted him, just as my manservant found me. Joseph followed me to the Heights, whispering his infernal prayers of protection in between warning me to leave the demon boy where I found him or I would suffer for it.

"How Heathcliff made his way to the crossroads, I know not, though I've asked him many times. He says he can't remember the trip to the Heights or even Madame Grimsley's, which I suppose is for the best."

After several minutes, Nuri broke the silence. "That is a remarkable story; I do not know what to say. Why did your servant think him a demon?"

"He claimed fairies left him at Cathy's request."

"Did he see this?"

"Of course not, Cathy likes to scare Joseph with threats of witchcraft. She's a child!"

"So Joseph believes that Heathcliff is Cathy's familiar?"

"Familiar?"

"Yes."

"It's absolutely absurd in this scientific age that anyone would believe that the boy is a familiar, but the man does. Joseph has spread terrible rumors about Heathcliff as have some of the other servants, making the poor boy's life a misery, and that is part of the reason I'm taking the steps I am."

"I do not wish to disparage the value of science, but there are many things that remain unknown in spite of its remarkable discoveries; any other view is reductionist, Mister Earnshaw. But your story has piqued my curiosity; I would like to question you further. Describe the young man to me."

"Tall and, though slender, powerfully built. He wore his long, dark hair tied back, and his glittering black eyes were both intense and mocking. He…"

"Mister Earnshaw! Are you still here?" called Ringmaster Astley from outside the tent.

"I am."

"Come in," bid Nuri.

The ringmaster entered and dropped unceremoniously into a chair. "Nuri, have you something to drink? This must be the hottest day of the year."

"Of course, Philip," said Nuri, moving to the back of the tent and preparing the ringmaster a glass of wine.

"Mister Earnshaw, I believe our arrangement will benefit us both," said Astley. "The boy is exceedingly talented, and he fits in quite well."

"I'm pleased to hear it," said Mister Earnshaw, his eyes downcast.

"We leave as soon as the show is over."

"Very well," said the older man, reaching into his pocket and pulling out an envelope. "Here is the fee for his apprenticeship; please take care of him."

"We shall, Mister Earnshaw, you can be sure of it. I believe he will be a featured performer before long. He's a quick study, and, frankly, I've never seen anyone ride with such skill."

"I'm relieved; I've feared for him."

"Do you have the draught ready, Nuri?" asked the ringmaster.

"I do. I'll invite him for a sweet drink after the show. He'll sleep until tomorrow, and awaken when we're well on the road to London."

"Good, I must get back to work. Thank you, Mister Earnshaw, you were right; he's a marvel," said Astley, holding out his hand.

Mister Earnshaw shook the ringmaster's hand, with a wan smile, and then bowed his head, covering his emotions.

"Mr. Earnshaw," said Nuri, after Philip Astley's exit. "This may not…"

"Please, Mistress Nuri, say no more; when the boy wakes give him this letter."

"Of course, Sir."

"He will stay with you in the winter?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Mister Earnshaw, do you know his true name?"

"No."

"He never told you?"

"I've asked him many times, and once he laughed at me, handing me a riddle made up of four questions. I suspect he used a string of English homonyms; because, he said, the sound of his name is so completely foreign, I would never remember it. However, he is exceedingly clever; I never could solve it."

"Will you be tempted to figure it out and call him?"

"What good would that do?"

"You would be surprised, Mister Earnshaw."

"Thank you, Mistress Nuri, I have enjoyed talking with you; I feel a weight has been lifted. Take care of him; he's a wonderful boy, and I shall be desolate without him."

"Mister Earnshaw," said Nuri, taking the gentleman's hand and pressing her card into it. "There is no reason not to visit him now and then."

"I've brought him only misery; it is best I stay away from him."

"You're wrong; he's very fond of you. It would be worse if you stayed away."

Mister Earnshaw stood, holding her hand. "You're very kind; I'll consider it. Goodbye, my dear. "


	6. Cathy's Seventh Birthday, Finale

**Cathy**

**Chapter Six: Cathy's Seventh Birthday - Finale**

Broken-hearted, Catherine Earnshaw deserted the guests and games of her seventh birthday party, creeping quietly to her room, where she took off her expensive, brand new buckle shoes and flung them at the wash stand, sending the china pitcher crashing to the floor. Rage and sorrow, followed closely by betrayal, pursued her as she sought the door to her new bedstead. Slipping in and pulling the door shut behind her, she collapsed in a fit of intense weeping. How could she attend a party when her soul had been stolen?

And what remained? An utterly sterile world; one devoid of solace or holiness. How could she survive without her genie? Already, she pined for his strange knowledge, wise guidance and best of all wild imagination. Now, she would become like those that she and Heathcliff had disdained – tame and common.

"Catherine," came her mother's brittle voice. "Where are you? You are behaving very rudely."

Hidden in the new wardrobe bed, Cathy held her breath; at this moment, she hated her mother with such fury that visions of brutal and violent revenge raged through her mind. All this was her mother's doing; the old harpy despised Heathcliff, causing him harm whenever an opportunity presented itself.

Before Heathcliff arrived, Cathy had loved her mother in spite of having to endure the woman's constant criticism. But now she had seen a side of Missus Earnshaw that repulsed her. A grown woman of position, with children of her own, who tormented an abandoned child and enabled her son and servants to do the same. Poor Heathcliff, what he had suffered at her mother's hands. The memories only brought more weeping.

Silent, rending tears poured forth as Cathy thought of her own guilt. She too had used Heathcliff in cruel and thoughtless ways. Coward that she was, she had allowed him to take the blame for her time and again. And he in his sweetness, like a beautiful dark knight, had protected her without reproach. She had taken his love for granted. If only she could find him, she would make amends.

"Cathy Earnshaw! Show yourself," came the voice of Ellen Dean from the hallway. "The show is about to begin. Come, girl, you're embarrassing your parents in front of the neighbors."

"Never," whispered Cathy, "not to you, Winkey, after the awful things you've done to Heathcliff. Someday, you will pay!

Lying back on the bed, she pushed the lattice open. A strong breeze from the moor calmed and refreshed her as for a moment her mind freed itself from violent imaginings. But her respite did not last long as memories of the night before broke her peace. Last night she had slept in her new bed for the first time, and this recollection brought Catherine low again. Why had she been so selfish? - Going along with her mother when she forced Heathcliff to sleep on a pallet on the other side of the room. Clearly her mother had installed the bed to separate them. But in her excitement the night before, Cathy had, as usual, thought only of herself, climbing into the bed and closing the door on the poor boy. When she had risen that morning Heathcliff had disappeared, and she didn't blame him, though she found he'd moved the pallet right next to the wardrobe bed.

If only he'd return she'd never close him out of her heart again. When she'd seen him briefly at breakfast, she'd been relieved. As usual he'd been so amusing with his stories of the circus folk. That is until her mother, that banshee, had found them and commenced beating poor Heathcliff, since then he'd been missing. Cathy had looked everywhere for him.

And no wonder he'd broken for freedom. Why would anyone stay in this nest of monsters? But she knew why he stayed – for her and for the moor. He loved them both with such heartbreaking intensity, and that fierce love outweighed all other considerations.

"Oh, do come back, Heathcliff," she whispered. "I shall make it up to you."

"Cathy, is that you? Are you in there?" said her father, opening the wardrobe bed door. "What are you doing, you naughty girl?"

"Go away! I hate you!"

"Do not speak to your father in that manner," said Mister Earnshaw, giving her a clout on the cheek. Catherine felt the shocking, stinging pain of a blow for the first time in months. This is what Heathcliff had endured day after day for her. Did she deserve such a gift? No, came the answer, no one did. Allowing him to make such a sacrifice had been selfish and cruel.

"Now, answer me," said Mister Earnshaw. "Why do you hate your father?"

"You know very well why!"

"I do not," said her father raising his hand to her again. "If I did, I would not ask."

"Where is Heathcliff?"

"What are you talking about?"

"He's run away, and it's your fault."

"He has not run away."

"Then why isn't he at my party?"

"You very well know why. Now come with me."

"I can't!"

"You can and you will. Now come out of there or I shall drag you out."

"I shall not!"

"Catherine Earnshaw, I am losing my patience. Get out of that bed, now!"

"No!"

"You are embarrassing me in front of our neighbors."

"That is all you care about, isn't it, Papa. You don't care about Heathcliff; all that matters to you are the neighbors. You and Mama are cowards; you are the embarrassment."

"That is not true. I care very much about the boy."

"Then where is Heathcliff?"

"Cathy, please come with me. I promise; you will be pleasantly surprised."

"Are you taking me to Heathcliff?"

"Where are your shoes?"

Catherine blanched; she had forgotten about her shoes.

"What have you done, Catherine? Those shoes cost a small fortune."

"Um…"

"Speaking of cowards, my dear, I don't believe there is any way Heathcliff can possibly take the blame for this."

"Oh Papa, I have used him most sorely," said Cathy, weeping at her cruelty.

"You have taken advantage of his isolation, love and nobility; your actions have been a severe disappointment to me."

"If only there were a way to turn back time."

"If only…ah, my Catherine…such grown up words; it breaks my heart to hear them from a seven year old. You must try to live your life in such a way that those words are not necessary."

"Have you said them, Papa?"

"Too many times to count," he replied, using one of Heathcliff's expressions.

"In regard to Heathcliff?"

"Yes."

"Papa, I have something to confess."

"Do you, Catherine?"

"Earlier, in a temper, I threw my shoes at the wash stand, and I broke the pitcher. I'm sorry."

"Good god, girl - that was my mother's; she left it to you for your dowry. I'm afraid I cannot go easy on you, Catherine."

"I understand, Papa."

Mister Earnshaw crossed the room and, pulling open the door, shouted. "Ellen Dean! I've found Cathy. Get a broom and dust bin – there's broken china."

Mister Earnshaw retrieved the little shoes, wiping them with his handkerchief to make sure no sharp slivers of china hid inside, after which he helped Catherine slip them on. "Come along, my girl, your guests await."

"Yes, Father."

"And Catherine, I don't believe you will be disappointed."

"Oh?"

"Indeed."

Cathy slid off the high bed, landing lightly on the floor where she took her father's offered hand.

"Let's go, Father."

Gathering her courage, Catherine followed Mister Earnshaw, but she fought tears; something in her father's face and tone of voice conveyed deep anguish. It could only be Heathcliff who moved him; she knew intuitively that her papa had given up on his family. This party had probably been planned for Heathcliff's pleasure rather than hers - a way of apologizing to the boy for his mistreatment. But she would try to do better, with Heathcliff as her example, and then, maybe, her father would love her.

A sudden gust ruffled Cathy's dark curls, as she climbed the path to join her guests. The sunlight and playful wind reminded her of her adventures with Heathcliff, and, as her chin quivered, she wondered if she'd ever see him again. Loneliness possessed her; she had no one, for like her father, in her heart she too had abandoned the Earnshaws. Only with the lost boy from an unknown, faraway, exotic world could she follow the path of her true nature; all that concerned her family were appearances – even Papa.

Papa led her to the seating where she took the place of honor, and the show began.

"Put a smile on your face. You look like you're attending a funeral," whispered her mother, who sat behind her.

"Yes, Mother," said the little girl, feeling violated as she pasted a smile on her face, but this façade could not stem her tears, as she wept silently.

The show did not engage her; even the clowns did not amuse. Heathcliff could execute a better pratfall than those idiots. But then the horseback riders appeared, and what she saw caused her to lean forward to gain a better view. With sharp intake of breathe, she brought her hands to her mouth as if in prayer, for there he was - leading them.

Standing on the back of a beautiful black stallion, Heathcliff rode at the apex of a triangle of seven riders - all disguised with masks, six wore the costume of a soldier, the seventh, Heathcliff, wore the attire of a pirate king. The group performed a series of elaborate maneuvers with Heathcliff at the center, his gymnastic skills being far superior to the other riders.

Wondering if her mother knew the identity of the amazing rider, Cathy turned around, but like everyone else her mother gazed transfixed. Smiling at the irony, she shifted her attention back to the performance just as Heathcliff executed a back flip landing in the saddle as his horse reared. He waved to the cheering crowd who, Cathy knew, had never seen a rider successfully perform such a feat. She stood and waved back, knowing too, that his greeting was meant just for her; the only audience he'd ever need.

The finale took her breath away as he raced toward a pole with a cross beam, meant, she supposed, to simulate mast. The other riders chased him, playing their parts as pursuing soldiers. Within a few feet of the mast he leapt to his feet, catching the yardarm and swinging himself up to a standing position. There he leaned provocatively against the mast, taunting his would-be captors.

Then came the most surprising trick of all, as the mast which had been held in place by ropes and pulleys, rose in the air, snapping onto a track, after which roustabouts unfurled a sail, and, with the masked Heathcliff still perched on the yardarm, those men pulled the structure toward the audience, stopping only a yard or two from her. There Heathcliff turned his back on his captive audience, waving to the soldiers as if he had escaped from some distant port on his pirate ship.

After a short pause, Heathcliff whistled and that incredible steed galloped to him. When the horse was within a few feet, Heathcliff leaped onto its back, turning the animal and riding back to join his fellow performers. Once again the riders formed a triangle with Heathcliff at the fore, and rode toward Cathy, who felt she'd been transported to a world that exactly matched her inner longings. Excitement and joy tingled through her as the sky grew bluer and the grass greener.

When within a few feet of Cathy, Heathcliff brought his dark horse to a halt, whispering in the animal's ear, just before he slid off and bowed to the stunned audience, who broke into cheers. Taking the horse's reins, he walked with the animal until he stood before Cathy, where he and the horse both executed a very elegant bow, after which Heathcliff reached up and removed the beautiful feather from his tricorn hat and presented it to the girl.

"Will you come with me now?" he whispered, as she took it from him.

"Oh, Heathcliff," she sighed, bewitched by him.

He took her hand and led her to his horse, leaping on and pulling her after him.

"This is Tairneach," he murmured, making room so she could sit in front of him on the saddle.

"He's the most handsome horse I've ever seen. But he does not compare to his rider," said Cathy, her eyes sparkling as she sat enclosed in Heathcliff's arms.

"Cathy…"

"I'm sorry, Heathcliff."

"Why?" asked the boy, as he dug his heals into the horse's side, so they trotted inside the circle of the ring, gaining speed.

"I've betrayed you, letting you suffer for me. Please forgive me."

"Done," said the boy, pushing the horse to a canter.

"You forgive so easily."

"For you I do."

"Oh, thank you, Heathcliff. You won't be sorry."

"Come, Cathy, I have something just for you, but it is elsewhere."

"What? Where?"

"Will you come with me, now?" he asked, moving into a gallop.

"But…"

"Decide, Cathy. They make plans for us," said Heathcliff, untying his mask and throwing it to the ground.

"Let's go."

"Hold tight! It is a rough journey!"

Heathcliff turned Tairneach so the horse galloped across the diameter of the ring, leaping the edge, and carrying the two children out onto the moor where they left propriety and convention behind. Cathy thought she heard her mother screaming at her father, but this no longer grieved her. Laughing with delight at their boldness, she and Heathcliff tore across the heath, and the moor protected them, embracing their daring, as it brought forth a veil of fog that opened before them even as it enveloped all else.


	7. The Cave

**Cathy**

**Chapter 7: The Cave  
**by Ivy Range

Cathy lay awake, watching the slanting rays of the early morning sun creep up the dark cave's entrance, until they touched the foot of the bedded nest Heathcliff had constructed out of hay, old blankets and scraps of cloth. When her companion whimpered in his sleep, she sat up, running her hand lightly over his wavy black hair, attempting to comfort him. She alone knew of his weakness. Ever the stoic, Heathcliff never showed the slightest reaction to the casual cruelty he suffered daily at the Heights. Only at night did he weep, and then as he slept - though once in a while, when he'd had a particularly bad day, he would curl up next to her, shedding hard, silent tears as he drifted into dreams.

Where had he learned to be so quiet when he suffered abuse? How had he learned to hold back screams of pain while he endured violence? Was it a custom of the land where he'd been born? Perhaps his people were fierce warriors who, like the Spartans, saw any reaction to bodily injury as weakness. Recalling his battered condition when he first arrived at the Heights, she considered the possibility that he'd been rendered insensitive to torture by prolonged cruelty. But she discarded this immediately, for she had seen him walk impassively away from a beating only to crumple in a ball on his pallet, his hair damp with sweat and his breathing irregular.

Cathy wept and carried on wildly whenever she received even the slightest slap; but, in truth, she reacted more to the stinging humiliation than the pain of the blow. Shame gripped her as she thought of Heathcliff, who endured much worse without complaint. She moved forward on the blanket, letting the early morning sun warm her, wondering whether it would not be better for Heathcliff to cry out when the denizens of the Heights tormented him. Then her father might intervene; for her part, Cathy would never let Heathcliff take the blame for her bad girl ways again. She might get a slap, but Heathcliff would suffer the whip. Why had she never considered the discrepancy in their punishments before? Tears of regret coursed down her cherry red cheeks as she thought of the suffering she had caused her very loyal, best friend.

And look at the incredible gift Heathcliff had created for her birthday! He'd found her a most amazing cave so deep and hidden on the moor, that she wondered how he'd discovered it. And how too, had he managed to keep it secret from her? The preparation must have taken weeks, for he had turned it into a castle, furnishing it with food, old furniture, lanterns, candles, discarded cloth, blankets and straw to make it comfortable just for her.

For months, at her father's order, the entire household had been on the watch for a thief or thieves who'd pilfered not only from the Earnshaws, but the surrounding community as well. Smiling to herself, she leaned down and kissed the cheek of her beloved bandit.

No one – not her father, mother, brother, servants, friends, curate, – cared in the least about her deepest longings, her first feelings. To them, she was a commodity to be molded and trained into something acceptable so she could be married off advantageously. Only Heathcliff made her dreams come true, sharing them with her, for they were his too.

"Why are you crying, Cathy? Do you wish to go home?" asked the sleepy boy, rubbing his eyes.

"No, I'm just so happy. How did you find this place?"

"That is for me to know."

"But we're so rarely separated," said Cathy, crossing her arms and gazing at him suspiciously. "How did you manage this? I never suspected."

"Perhaps tonight, while we watch the stars, I'll tell you the story, but not now," smirked Heathcliff.

"Please, Heathcliff."

"Do you not hear the water calling?"

Cathy smiled at him; indeed she did hear the water singing as it cascaded down a short fall, pooling at the bottom before moving on. The musical sound had lulled them to sleep the night before.

"Come, Cathy, but we must be mindful. No doubt, they search for us."

"Stop fretting, they will never find us here."

"They will, and then they'll punish us. Me mostly," frowned Heathcliff.

"Don't be gloomy; I'll not let you take the solitary blame."

"You must let me protect you."

"No, we are equals from this point forward. We share evenly in each other's happiness as well as miseries."

"Cathy…" sighed Heathcliff.

"Heathcliff, do you think anyone else in this world knows what this cave means to me?"

Heathcliff stared at her, his puzzlement evident.

"Do you not listen when they find fault with me? – 'Catherine Earnshaw, young ladies do not run about the moor, or shout, or love animals, or bird's nests, or climb trees' and on and on, day after day."

"I seem to recall some unfavorable talk of your tomboy ways," laughed Heathcliff, for she had done a perfect imitation of her mother's belittling, grating voice.

"No one but you understands my dreams. This cave is wondrous. It's perfect in every way."

"Like in Arabian Nights?" he asked, a curious glint in his eye.

"Yes, Ali Baba."

"So you are pleased with my present?"

"It is the best ever – in my whole life. You are like a miraculous genie, who understands without being asked."

"Let's go swimming, but promise you will keep your voice down," ordered Heathcliff.

"I promise."

The shimmering blue sky cast a dome, intensifying the heat and humidity of the hazy midsummer morning.

"We'll have the mother of all thunderstorms later today," murmured Heathcliff. "That's good; it will cover our tracks."

"But we waded streams and then circled for hours."

"A good tracker can find anything."

"How do you always know?" asked Cathy, cocking her head to the side.

"Know what?"

"What will happen with the weather?"

Heathcliff smiled. "You exaggerate as always."

"No, I don't. You always know when to expect a tempest."

"Sudden, violent storms often follow mornings like this. This afternoon the air will thicken and still as the sky darkens with black clouds."

"But how do you know it will be today? There are many days like today when nothing happens."

"I feel it; my skin tingles and my ears ache. Touch your skin; feel the sticky moisture that means the air is too wet to dry it. The sky god will use that moisture to create great black clouds full of rain, light and sound, so he may quicken the earth mother."

"You had better not let Joseph hear you say such things."

"He's whipped me for less."

"Where do you get such ideas, Heathcliff?"

"I don't know, Cathy, they rise into my mind like the moon to the sky. Are such things a sign of my low birth?"

"No, they are a sign of the opposite. Now let's bathe before the tempest is upon us," smiled Cathy, as the two climbed out of the cave. Cathy had stripped down to her lace slip the night before, but now she removed even that, to swim in her knickers.

"I'll be right back; I must check on Tairneach," called Heathcliff as he climbed down the rocks to a narrow valley.

Cathy watched from a rock outcropping, laughing when she saw the shining black horse trot to his master and nuzzle the boy's cheek. After his affectionate greeting, Tairneach danced around Heathcliff, sniffing his pockets, until the boy pulled out an apple. As the horse munched, Heathcliff leaped on the horse's back and the two tore up and down the valley.

Growing hungry at the sight of that pretty red apple, Cathy returned to the cave where she gathered apples, bread and nuts, after which she climbed down to the bottom of the waterfall where she found Heathcliff removing his knee britches and shirt to swim in his under drawers. His arms and back were covered in bruises, and she winced when she saw him. In fact his entire left side shoulder to waist was black and blue.

"What is the matter, Cathy?"

"I just remembered something I forgot to do," replied the girl, thinking fast, for she knew talking about such things would rekindle his anguish and his anger.

"What did you forget?"

"Nothing important."

"Tell me."

"Um…" said Cathy, trying to think of a way to avoid what really concerned her.

"Cathy?"

"What is that you are wearing?" asked the young girl, touching the charm that hung from Heathcliff's neck. "Is it a ward?"

"Have you forgotten? You asked last night."

"I must have been tired. Tell me again," lied Cathy, for she remembered it very well. They'd argued.

"Playing dumb won't work, Cathy. I cannot let you wear it. The charm is for me alone. Who knows what would happen if you wore it."

"Ah, you are too clever. You caught me out," said Cathy, feigning shame.

"Please don't pester me about it. I would lend it to you if I could."

"Forgive me?"

"Done."

"Good. Last one in…" shouted Cathy, as she leaped into the water, screaming in her enthusiasm. Laughing, Heathcliff followed her, diving into the chilly pool.

Despite Heathcliff's warning that sound traveled great distances on the moor, Cathy could not restrain her shouts, screaming and giggling noisily which forced the boy to climb the rocky crest more than once to search for their pursuers.

"Heathcliff," said Cathy. "Try to have fun; will you?"

"Cathy, your shouts can be heard for miles, even though we are in a crevice."

"I'll try to be quieter, but I'm having so much fun. Perhaps you would teach me how you manage to remain so mute."

"I monitor myself, so as not to draw attention."

"So you are a skulker," giggled Cathy.

"Do not say that, Cathy!" frowned the boy, swimming to the edge and climbing out.

"I'm sorry, Heathcliff; it was a bad joke - repeating Hindley's words," replied Cathy, following him and touching his arm.

"Leave me alone," he said, pulling away.

"You will not talk to me in that manner; I meant no harm."

"But you did harm, because you never think before you speak."

"Et tu, Hea'cliff?" said Cathy, delivering the line as if Joseph spoke it. Heathcliff turned away, but his shoulders shook, and Cathy knew he attempted to stifle laughter.

The week before her father had assigned William Shakespeare's _Julius Caesar, _which Heathcliff pronounced the best of those they had read so far, though Cathy preferred _The Tempest_. The two had played the various roles over and over again as they fought about whom would get to act Caesar's death scene.

Just the day before her birthday, it had been Cathy's turn, and she had surprised Heathcliff by rendering the part of Caesar using Joseph's voice and dialect. Heathcliff, as all the other roles, let on nothing, but read Cinna's lines in the voice of the local apothecary, a man not known for his lilting timbre. Cathy broke down, sending Heathcliff over the edge as they fell to the floor in hysterics. This was followed by repetitions of the scene as their many acquaintances would have performed it, each funnier than the last.

"Liberty, Freedom! Tyranny's dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it abou' the street," replied Heathcliff, shouting Cenna's lines as Elsie might deliver them and falling dramatically into the water, splashing Cathy, who dove down and pulled him under.

Hours later, shivering, their lips blue and fingers wrinkled and pale, the two children climbed out of the water to sun on a large flat rock. Lying spread eagle side by side, they touched hands in silence, listening as the life of the moor pulsed around them. Cathy's concerns of the early morning had vanished like a mirage under close inspection, and now, she felt as empty and clear as the now cloudless sky at which she gazed. Utterly exhausted by hours of water play, she rested in complete relaxation as the heat of the sun-warmed rock seeped into her. Closing her eyes, she listened to the sounds of the heath: birds, frogs, insects, light breezes running through tall grass and wildflowers, water flowing over falls. Comforted by this multiplicity of familiar sounds, she drifted in bliss, gradually perceiving a weaving and blending as the cacophony merged into harmonious music. A unique melody played on tiny bells and chimes; the song circled back and forth on itself in a terrible play of opposites, and yet it described a beautiful unity. Feeling she could remain in this state forever, Cathy, too, merged with the delicate symphony. And what did the song say? _Cathy,_ it whispered, _you, like the air, soil, water, terrain, plants and animals, are interlaced irrevocably with the life of this holy place._

"Heathcliff?" she whispered, after each sound separated. "Did you hear it?"

"Yes," said Heathcliff, rolling on his side and resting his head in his hand.

"What did it say to you?"

"Everything, but I don't know the words."

"This is the best place."

"Yes, the fey lady was right."

"The fay lady?" asked Cathy.

"Yes."

"Elves told you about this place?"

"Elves?" laughed Heathcliff. "Where did you get that?"

"You said the fay lady."

"Yes, but she's not an elf…I don't think."

"Why do you call her fay?"

"Cause she sometimes knows things before they happen."

"Like what?"

"Like when the sheep got sick."

"You've known her that long, and you never told me?" asked Cathy.

"She said not to tell you."

"But why?"

"Don't be daft, Cathy, you know why."

"Because I speak without considering my words?"

"Yes."

"Why are you telling me now?"

"Because now you are seven; already you understand more," explained Heathcliff.

"Tell me about her."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Please."

"I'll answer one of your questions, but in turn you must answer one mine. Agreed?"

"Agreed. How did you meet her?" asked Cathy.

"On the moor."

"And?"

"And?" echoed Heathcliff, sitting up and gazing at the horizon.

Frustrated by his lack of attention, Cathy stood, and with a spinning leap landed so she blocked Heathcliff's view. Then she squatted glaring at him eye to eye. "'On the moor' is not an explanation of how you met her."

"Indeed it is," answered Heathcliff, smirking and rolling his eyes.

"I'll not answer a single a question until you've given details," replied Cathy, shaking a finger at him.

"You said nothing of details." Heathcliff glared back at her for a moment before lying back down, and resting with his hands behind his head. "Clouds gather and the wind picks up - can you smell the dampness?"

"It was implicit in our agreement, and don't change the subject."

"Implicit?"

Cathy stood, watching huge, dark clouds roil upward in the western sky. "Yes, it means understood. Now, when, who, what, how, where? Tell me."

"It happened a little while after I came to the Heights - the first time Papa went away. Joseph caught us in the barn, do you remember?"

Cathy's eyes grew large; unfortunately, she did remember.

"After he whipped me, he sent me to the upper valley to collect the sheep with Scout. I…"

"What?"

"I limped; he'd drawn blood. The pain…and because I was alone…I…I wept."

"Oh Heathcliff, it was all my idea."

"And a splendid one, too – making a carnival for the mice."

"It was fun."

"Why is fun bad? Why did Joseph get angry?" asked Heathcliff.

"Fun is the entrance to the devil's playground. Or so that old fart Joseph says."

"How does he know?"

"He says it's in the Bible, but I've never seen it there."

"When do you read the Bible?"

"I don't; Papa won't let me. He says it's not for children," explained Cathy.

"So how do you know it's not in there?"

"Because Papa explains it to us, and he would certainly mention something so important."

"So it's not true?"

"I do not believe that fun is bad."

"Then I don't either; for me, having fun with you is my only salvation. I would go mad otherwise."

"Heathcliff…"

"Never mind, Cathy. Let's not think of it. You want to know how I met the lady?"

"Yes."

"She must have heard me weeping, for as I walked past the rocky outcropping she stepped out of the mist."

"What did she say?" asked Cathy, her eyes wide with wonder.

"She warned me off that trail, saying Hindley and his thugs waited around the next bend."

"She knows Hindley?"

"Not by name."

"Well how did she call him?"

"That poor, detestable boy."

"How did you know she meant Hindley?"

"I don't know; I just did."

"What did you do?"

"I climbed the rough track up the rock face, following it until I stood above him. There I hid and tossed pebbles at that big square noggin of his, all the while I moaned like a wrathful ghost. That spooked him, for the fog rolled in thick and fast, casting eerie shadows."

"But how did you climb? You were hurt."

"I'm always hurt."

"What is the lady's name?"

"She does not give her name. I call her Lady when we meet, but she has helped me more than once."

"Is she beautiful? What color are her hair and eyes?"

"Ah, but you are the sneaky one; you ask a new question when I have already answered the first. It is my turn now."

"Alright, but I want to meet her too."

"Who did you play with before Papa brought me home?"

"I played alone."

"Were you lonely?"

"Yes, very - so I wished for a friend."

"You did?" asked Heathcliff.

"Most fervently! Once the idea came to me, I could not stop thinking about. Imagining, dreaming of a prince from a far off land who would love me strange as I am. Or rather love me because of my strangeness. Then one day I gathered all my treasures, and wrapped them in one of my mother's silk handkerchiefs. That night under a full moon, while all slept, I left the house, carrying my bundle to the crossroads."

"Why?" whispered Heathcliff, his eyes as round as saucers.

"It was bright as early twilight, so I found my way easily down the road to the signpost. Once there, I used a piece of slate to dig a hole opposite the one Hindley and Ellen dug to hide their treasures, and then I prayed to the Elvin powers, begging for my wish to be granted. I gathered kindling and lit a small fire. Afterwards I spun, circling the flames, while I sang, imagining the best boy ever. The next day Papa carried you home. At first I didn't know it was you; you were so dirty and ragged, but then I did."

"How?"

"Because…after closer examination your true identity came clear."

"And what is that?"

"You are a prince…my prince, and I am your princess. One day we shall be king and queen."

"So you are the author of my fate," said Heathcliff, standing and spreading his arms so the gusty wind could embrace his body.

"I thought my magic so simple. I never considered the consequences – the pain you would endure. But if we are true to each other one day we'll overcome."

"Do you wish for that?"

"Yes."

"Then, Cathy, we must go back to the Heights, and soon before they find this cave for it will be our refuge until we take what is ours."

"Yes, this moor and all it contains is our kingdom."

"It is for everyone else to leave, not us; for here, they are other, and we belong."

"What about Papa?" asked Cathy.

"Papa can stay."

"But Heathcliff…"

"What?"

"I fear you'll be severely punished."

"I'll endure whatever punishment they mete out for the purpose of reaching our goal."

"But they will separate us again."

"Yet I shall remain true to you, Your Serene Highness."

"And I you, Your Majesty."

As if to seal the pact the air shimmered as forks of lightning reached across the sky, followed by an ear shattering crack of thunder that broke open the clouds, releasing their bounty, pouring rain down in sheets. Cathy reached for Heathcliff's hand and the two danced over the rocks, knowing that in this place, neither heaven nor hell had the power to strike them down.


	8. The Dragon's Knight Tavern, Part 1

**Chapter 8: Baby Birds and the Consequences of Cruelty  
Part One: The Dragon Knight's Tavern  
**by Ivy Rangee

**Cathy**

"Catherine, where in bloody blazes is that boy?" asked Mister Earnshaw as they crested a ridge on the road to Liverpool. He held his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes from the bright morning light peculiar to early June while he scanned the countryside.

"Don't worry, Papa, Heathcliff will return soon," assured Cathy. "He's probably found something of interest, and it's such a beautiful day after all that rain."

"Catherine! Where are your shoes?"

"Just noticing, Papa?" giggled Cathy, squishing her feet into the cool, soft, new grass.

"Your ninth birthday fast approaches, girl. This is no way for a young lady to act."

"They're safe, Papa. I left them in the knot of the old oak just past Rocky Outcrop," said Cathy, closing her eyes as a fragrant spring breeze ran its fingers through her hair. The gentle scent made her feel light and easy. "Oh, Papa, isn't this the most wonderful day?"

Mister Earnshaw sighed. "It is indeed, my dear – a perfect day after all that dreariness – but we approach the Dragon's Knight Tavern where you promised you'd turn back."

"And I shall, Papa." Having said this, Cathy held her arms behind her like wings and ran around old Earnshaw, humming an infectious tune.

"Not without Heathcliff you won't. I'll not have you running along the Liverpool road without an escort."

"I shall take a back trail across the moor."

"Nay, I forbid it so far from the Heights," replied Mister Earnshaw, turning in circles as he followed her with his gaze. "Stop that, Catherine, you're making me dizzy."

"But Heathcliff will find me," she said, smiling up at him. "He's master of the moor. He says it whispers to him. He knows every nook."

"I realize that, Catherine. That is why he accompanies me when I hunt; he's truer than a hound."

"I wish you would not teach him to hunt," she said, throwing herself to the ground, where she lay on her back, gazing at the fluffy June clouds as they scudded above her. She waved her hands before her as if casting a spell.

"Catherine, a man is not a man who does not hunt."

"He's too good at it; the poor beasts do not have a chance. I've had to reprimand him more than once, though he always finds a way around it."

Mister Earnshaw chuckled. "You speak truly; every instruction must be worded precisely. He obeys only to the letter, clever boy. Perhaps he should be a solicitor."

"Do not encourage him."

"Oh but I must, my dear daughter, for you are a tyrant whose insatiable demands send him into dark and terrible moods. I'm his only salvation."

"Papa … that is not funny."

"It wasn't meant to be, my dear, it wasn't meant to be. Call him, Cathy. I know you can; I've observed it."

"Must I?"

"Indeed, if you both wish to dine with me before you turn back."

"Truly, Papa?" asked Cathy. "Dinner at the Dragon's Knight?"

"Indeed, my girl! Dinner at the Dragon's Knight, the best tavern on the Liverpool road, but we must turn down that side path yonder or we'll miss it. So stand up and call Heathcliff."

Jumping to her feet, Cathy let loose with a series of ear piercing whistles that left her papa grabbing for his ears.

"What is that?" he murmured.

"Heathcliff calls it silbador," she answered, dancing around him on her toes, her skirt swirling. "It's warbled words."

"Catherine, be still, girl."

"Why must I?" She continued to dance, but she gained some distance from her father, anticipating a blow.

"Because that's what good girls do!" he said, raising his hand to cuff her.

"But then I couldn't walk with you or play with Heathcliff. Why would you bind me so?"

Lowering his hand, Mister Earnshaw gazed down at her with apparent sympathy. "I would not, but that is the way of the world. I fear what will happen if you do not learn to fit in, Catherine."

"Why, Papa? What could happen?" she asked, whirling in circles.

"Why what?" asked Heathcliff, who stood behind them barefoot, his face and hands streaked with dirt.

"Heathcliff," shrieked Cathy, running to him. "What have you brought me?"

"Bloody, hell! How do you do that, boy?" asked Mister Earnshaw. "And, Catherine, cease that caterwauling."

"Do what?" asked Heathcliff.

"Come upon me unnoticed," growled old Earnshaw.

"I move like a jungle cat. Right Cathy?" asked Heathcliff, who stood, arms akimbo like some conquering hero, his face beaming through the grime.

"You are my beautiful Lord Tiger," laughed Cathy, hugging him. "Master of glen, thicket and dale."

"Stop that, Catherine! You are much too old for such fancies. Now, come along, you two, and no more straying. I've just time to dine. I must arrive in Liverpool prior to the wool carts."

Pulling the two children behind him, Mister Earnshaw set off down a well trodden side path for the Dragon Knight's Tavern. The tree lined trail followed a small stream crowded on either side by wildflowers. A fresh breeze chased the three travelers, stirring the shiny new leaves of spring that waved above the dappled track. It carried with it the sweet scent of brand new blooming things. As they walked, they passed several travelers on their way from the tavern, and Mister Earnshaw greeted them all by name.

After a short hike, the trail opened into a tree lined glen, home of the Dragon Knight's Tavern and Inn. Bustling with activity, the old tavern took up the length of the right side of the large, two-story, stone inn and had its own entrance. Behind the inn stood several out buildings including a stable, barn and best of all a cook house from which delightful aromas traveled on the blessed breeze.

"Do you smell that, Heathcliff?" whispered Cathy. "I'm so hungry."

"It's clove," said Heathcliff.

"Your favorite," laughed Cathy.

"Come, come children," ordered Mister Earnshaw. "Time's a' wasting."

Walking behind them, their papa herded the two children like an old sheep dog, pushing them to a trot. But just as they approached the entrance to the Dragon Knight's Tavern a cloud interceded, blocking the sun from the earth. In the sudden shadowy gray, Cathy shuddered, her face growing pale.

"What is it, Catherine?" asked Mister Earnshaw. "Have you caught a chill?"

"No, Papa, but someone has stepped over my grave," shivered Cathy as the clouds retreated.

"Heathcliff, lad, give Catherine your jacket. And I'll have none of this talk of tombs."

Dutifully, Heathcliff stripped off his jacket and held it up so Cathy might slip into it.

"It's too hot, Papa; I'll be fine," she whined.

"You will wear it, Catherine. Heathcliff, come along with me to the water pump and wash your face and hands. Good lord, boy, what have you been doing?"

While her papa dragged Heathcliff off to groom, the sign that hung above the tavern's dark double doors caught Cathy's eye. The carved and painted wooden sign swayed to and fro, creaking in the mild breeze. At first she could not make out the scene, but as she gazed upon it the figures came to life. A knight in dark armor held a sword and shield aloft, defending himself from a strange dragon that advanced upon him. The mythic animal's face was that of a large bird, yet it had sharply pointed ears like a cat. With cross and angry eyes it glared at the knight, its mouth wide open, shrieking with fury at the knight's encroachment. The creature's scaly, S-shaped neck connected to a short torso from which huge bat-like wings sprouted. It had the feet and claws of a bird of prey but the long curling tail of a snake. And though it defiantly stood its ground before the knight, Cathy felt it meant no evil. The knight had invaded the dragon's territory. No, she reconsidered; its purpose was to test the knight's mettle before allowing him entry into the mysterious forest.

At this she examined the knight's surroundings more carefully. The two antagonists fought near the banks of a wide river at the edge of an ancient forest. She followed the river as it meandered into the distance, where on the far bank stood a great city, probably the knight's home. Returning to the forest side of the river, she saw that behind the knight on a remote, high plateau stood an isolated castle, ringed with a vine of sharp thorns. Her imagination fired, Cathy knew the castle keep to be the knight's destination, and she wondered who might inhabit that tall, bristling citadel, hidden deep within the primeval wood.

"Tell me what you see?" whispered Heathcliff who stood beside her, gazing at the sign.

"Come, Catherine, Heathcliff," called Mister Earnshaw, startling them. "No time for daydreaming."

"I'll tell you on the way back," whispered Cathy as the three entered the dark tavern. "What did you bring me?"

Heathcliff smiled at her as from his trouser pocket he pulled a beautiful falcon feather which Cathy immediately snatched from him.

"You didn't kill the bird to get it?" she demanded.

"I found it," said Heathcliff.

"Good," said Cathy, surveying the inside of the tavern. Light poured through the wide-open, narrow lattices, but still most of the large room remained in deep shadows.

"Mister Earnshaw, 'tis a joy to see thee. What brings thee to the Knight?" asked a short but sturdily built completely bald man.

"Hull, my good man," answered Mister Earnshaw. "We've come to dine."

"Thee are in luck. Missus Hull has made her famous meat 'n' taty pie, gravy & mushy peas. As I recall, 'tis a favorite of yours, is it not, Mister Earnshaw?"

"Indeed, it is Hull. Perhaps she would wrap a bit in dough and prepare it for the road."

"Course, Mister Earnshaw, whatever thee wish," said Hull, with a slight bow. "May I help thee find a table?"

"Yes, Hull, best place us near the fire; my daughter, Catherine, has caught a chill and needs warming up."

"So this here is Miss Catherine?" said Hull with a smile. "Thy papa has told me of thee, and I see he did not boast. Thee are right pretty."

"Thank you, Hull," said Cathy, with a curtsy.

"Come along, Mister Earnshaw. There's a table in the tap room right near the fire for thee and the little miss. After that I'll show thy servant to the kitchen."

"My servant?" asked Mister Earnshaw.

"He'll be fine; we've bubbles and squeak for the help."

Cathy watched the bright, eager smile on Heathcliff's face go cloudy and dark. She could plainly see his body scream with fury as he hunched his shoulders and clenched his fists until the knuckles turned white as bone. For a moment she thought she heard a low, feral growl as he fought to control himself.

"You misunderstand, Hull!" said Mister Earnshaw in a pleasant but serious tone. "This is my ward, Master Heathcliff. He is most certainly not a servant."

Hull's eyes went as wide as his bald pate. "I apologize to thee, Mister Earnshaw."

"Apology accepted. Now seat us."

"Perhaps you would prefer to sit outside in the sun today, Sir. Surely that will warm Miss Catherine better than a fire."

"No, Hull. In here by the fire."

"I'm truly sorry, Sir, but I can na seat the likes of that Gypsy bairn in the tap room. 'Twill only cause trouble. What with all the thieven' and murderin' that lot's been up to o' late. I ought to be reportin' this one to the 'xpellers. "

"Bring three meals, prepared for the road, Hull. We shall wait outside. And if you report this child for deportation you will learn a thing or two about murder."

"Yes, Sir," said Hull, scuttling off to the kitchen.

"How rude!" said Cathy. "Heathcliff's noble birth is so obvious. That dolt will be sorry when Heathcliff's royal father finds him and has him beaten."

She watched Heathcliff, stiff with anger and humiliation as he glared at the floor. Feeling sorry for him, Cathy reached for his hand, but he yanked it away.

"Come, come children, no use brooding over the ignorance of others. Not much can be done to bring knowledge to those who willfully remain in darkness," said Mister Earnshaw. "The day is a beauty; we shall have a picnic."

"Oh," sighed Cathy, glumly, as she followed Heathcliff who led the way. "I did so wish to dine in a tavern."

Heathcliff stopped, turning to Cathy his face scarlet, hurt clear in his coal black eyes.

"Catherine, how selfish and thoughtless," growled Mister Earnshaw. "After all that Heathcliff does for you. You should be ashamed."

"No, Papa, it is I who am ashamed," whispered Heathcliff. "The kitchen will be an adventure; I do not mind."

"Really, Heathcliff?" said Cathy, clapping her hands. "You would do that for me?"

"Are you an idiot, Catherine? Of course he minds! Well, I shall not have it! If Heathcliff cannot dine in the tap room then neither you nor I shall. Is that clear, girl?"

"I'm sorry, Papa, I only meant …"

"Apologize to Heathcliff. He is the one you have betrayed."

"Mister Earnshaw … Mister Earnshaw," called a rich, sultry woman's voice. The three turned to see a large, handsome, rosy cheeked woman waddling toward them. She wore a gray gown with a blue kitchen cloak over it. Her dark curly hair popped out in every direction from beneath a frilly white lace cap.

"Missus Hull," said Mister Earnshaw. "To what do I owe the pleasure? You so rarely leave your kitchen staff."

"Let me have a look at 'em," said the rotund woman.

"Who?" asked Mister Earnshaw.

"The Gypsy brat, o' course," she boomed.

Through the dim light of the tap room, all eyes turned to them as a sinister murmur spread through the room like concentric waves made by an ominous pebble that has fallen into a deep, dark pond. Missus Hull made her way to Heathcliff who backed away, stopping only when pressed against a wall. In his defense Cathy ran to him, making a stand between the boy and the portly woman.

"Come, come, get out o' me way girl. I'll not harm him," said Missus Hull.

"Do as she says, Cathy," whispered Heathcliff. "I can hold my own."

"But Heathcliff, I didn't mean to cause all this," said Cathy, her chin quavering, tears in her eyes.

"Do not fear; I know you meant no harm."

"What do you think you are doing, Missus Hull?" asked Mister Earnshaw as Cathy moved to Heathcliff's side.

Smelling of cooking spices and butter, the big woman took the boy's small chin in her chubby sausage-like fingers, examining his face. With a conspiratorial wink, she smiled sweetly at him.

"Why this ain't no Gypsy bairn," Missus Hull shouted, feeling his forehead. "He's got no horn nubs, though he be a dark one, I'll witness."

Once again a murmur rippled through the tap room, but this time without menace.

"I know not what he be –maybe an American or prince o' Cathay – but I'll have no act of kindness go unredeemed at the Dragon Knight's Tavern," said Missus Hull so all could hear. "Thee and I go back a long way, Mister Earnshaw; playin' together as children while our fathers and grandfathers carried on their meetin's…"

"Indeed, we do Missus Hull," said Mister Earnshaw with a relieved smile. "And do you remember the first precept of their code?"

"I do, Sir. 'Kindness toward those in need no matter who they may be or how inconvenient.'"

"That was the motto of the Dragon's Knight patrons when we were bairns. What has happened?"

"It's these times, Mister Earnshaw," said Missus Hull, shaking her head. "'Suffer the little ones' as the sayin' goes, but now a days we're all on our own, even the bairns. This world's a fallin' deeper and deeper."

"So it seems, dear woman," said Mister Earnshaw.

"I must apologize for Hull, my dolt of a husband. It's with the business end o' me soup ladle I hit him upon the head. Idiot!"

"Apology accepted; I understand more than you will ever know, though I hope you have not injured him."

"Nay, he'll be fine; 'tis only a lump as big as an egg. Now come along, the lot of thee," ordered Missus Hull, taking sweet biscuits from her pocket and handing them all to Heathcliff with a wink. "I've had one of our private sittin' rooms prepared, though you must share it with another party; it bein' such short notice. Though small it's a very agreeable group. Perhaps you'll be happy o' the company."


	9. The Dragon's Knight Tavern, Part 2

**Chapter 9: Baby Birds and the Consequences of Cruelty  
Part Two: Missus Hull  
**by Ivy Rangee

**Heathcliff**

In a tiny private room of the Dragon Knight's Tavern, Heathcliff sat alone in the darkest corner of a long, narrow booth. Licking his spoon, he stared at his bowl; the food was the best he'd ever eaten, and Heathcliff would have picked up his bowl and licked it clean had not Mister Earnshaw admonished him about such behavior. But now Mister Earnshaw was not there to witness Heathcliff's indiscretion, he'd been invited to the round table in the center of the room where he dined with their fellow guests who, as it turned out, were members of a family the Earnshaws had maintained close acquaintance with for many years. This family too journeyed to Liverpool, and, this happy coincidence, made it possible for Mister Earnshaw to catch a ride in the ample coach of these very agreeable traveling companions.

Completely recovered from her chill, Cathy played with the family's two young girls who stood in awe of her. With Heathcliff's jacket draped round her shoulders like a cape and the falcon feather tied into her dark braided hair, she bossed them about imperiously in a game best described as haughty queen torments her ladies in waiting. The two sisters, Belinda and Mandy, were bright, pretty little things with yellow curls, peachy pink checks and red bow lips. However, in Heathcliff's judgment, compared to Cathy, they were homely, her beauty so surpassed theirs.

Heathcliff had tried to join their game, even bribing each girl with one of the sweet biscuits Missus Hull had given him. In return Cathy had knighted him only to send him on a quest for a magic mirror. He'd tried to pretend along with the three girls, setting out and returning a little while later with the make believe object. But Cathy had pronounced it a counterfeit, exiling him for his error. Angry at his banishment, he took his exile back to the corner booth where he'd seized her bowl gobbling up the half eaten contents.

"Would thee care for more, Master Heathcliff?" asked Missus Hull, the tavern keeper, hovering above him as he frowned at his beloved playmate, who, in turn, utterly ignored him.

With a tragic expression, Heathcliff nodded his head, the comfort of food being just what he needed to mend his broken heart. Besides he suffered from the condition of perpetual hunger.

"Come along with me to the kitchen. We've just finished the puddin's for the evenin' meal, and I've need of a taster with skills such as thine."

"You have?" asked Heathcliff, looking up at her with interest.

"Indeed, 'tis rare to find one of such refined tastes as thee," said Misses Hull, waddling to the door where she stopped, waving for him to follow. "And bring thy spoon."

Heathcliff stood on the booth's long bench seat, running the length of it. The three girls played on the floor just beneath the bench's end, and he chose that very spot to leap to the floor, disrupting their game. Grabbing his jacket, he stood before Cathy and her playmates, smirking as he aimed his spoon at them. He cocked it like a flintlock, and, releasing the trigger, he shouted bang, before running off to join Missus Hull.

"Do thee not think shooting a bit extreme for Miss Catherine's crimes?" asked the woman, her huge hips swaying like a weight balance. "Sometimes girls need to be girly."

"She exiled me after I gave her a sweet biscuit," complained Heathcliff, following the woman down a short hall and into the kitchen.

"Did she now? What cheek!" Missus Hull went to a long table where the puddings lay cooling. She took one and scooped heaping spoonfuls into two bowls.

"Indeed, and then she made me give one to each of the other girls," frowned the boy, crossing his arms and looking away.

"Nay! The heartless wench."

"Indeed!" he nodded his head vigorously, turning back to her. "After that she sent me on a fruitless quest for a magic mirror to satisfy her silly vanity."

"Women!" sighed the portly woman, pointing to the seat beside her.

"Indeed!" growled Heathcliff, storming the tall stool, and brandishing his spoon like a sword.

"I'd not worry if I were thee; thy lady may have need of momentary variety. But 'tis thee she will always seek when she grows weary of those bland conventional companions."

"How long must I wait?" pondered the boy, swinging his feet.

"Until she comes to her senses." With that the Missus Hull tucked into the pudding, and Heathcliff followed suit.

"Well?" she asked.

"I've never tasted a better pudding, Missus Hull," declared Heathcliff, gazing at her with admiration.

"Well that means somethin' comin' from one such as thyself."

"It does?"

"Would I say what I do not mean?"

"I don't know; some do."

"Nay, I s'pose thee have a point," laughed Missus Hull. "I shall make thee a bundle of goodies for thy trek back to the Heights. Perhaps that will earn thy trust."

"Thank you, Missus Hull," said Heathcliff politely, and he meant it. He loved this woman's cooking.

"Tell me, Master Heathcliff, how is thy master's wife?" asked the prodigious woman.

"My master?" Heathcliff stared at his pudding perplexed.

"Mister Earnshaw, boy."

"He's my papa; I have no master."

"Thy papa? Well then how is thy mama?" She tried again.

"I don't know; I don't remember my mama," replied Heathcliff, his voice full of longing.

"Hmmm … Let me be clear; I refer to Missus Earnshaw."

"You mean the mistress. She is not my mama," said Heathcliff, dramatically emphasizing the not.

"I must apologize; thy circumstances are more complex than most. How then is the mistress?"

"Cross and mean."

"Cross and mean is it?" chuckled Missus Hull. "Some things never change. But how is her health?"

Heathcliff looked up from his pudding to gaze at the woman with suspicion; he did not like being questioned in this manner. Clearly she bribed him for information with food and kindness, his two greatest weaknesses besides Cathy.

"Thee are a shrewd one," laughed Missus Hull, eyeing him with equal intensity. "I only ask because I've heard rumor of illness. And I would send a draught with thee."

The boy relaxed a bit at that. "She coughs and grows thin; her face is red as fire. That is all I know. Ask Papa."

"I see; then I shall send a tincture with thee to relieve her symptoms."

"Are you a healer?" asked Heathcliff.

"Indeed, I am, clever boy. I studied with my father who was learned in natural philosophy and plant lore."

"Can you fix me?" he asked eagerly.

"Fix thee?"

"I am a heathen bastard… and other bad things."

Missus Hull gazed at him for a moment. "And what is wrong with that?"

"I'm not human; I'm no better than a dog or a horse," sighed Heathcliff.

"I love dogs and horses."

"But they have no souls."

"Who told thee that?"

"I've heard it said by many."

"Have thee a horse or dog?" asked Missus Hull, eyeing him sharply.

"A horse."

"Have thee looked closely into the eyes of this creature?"

"I have."

"What did thee see?"

Heathcliff thought for a moment before he spoke. "Love."

"Is not a loving heart the true sign of ensoulment?"

"I don't know," frowned Heathcliff. "What is ensoulment?"

"Being with soul."

"Oh."

"They say the eyes are the windows to the soul," declared Missus Hull.

"Will you look into my eyes and tell me what you see?"

"If you wish," said Missus Hull, holding his face and gazing into his glittering black eyes. After a moment she let him go with a sigh.

"It's true then," said Heathcliff, reading disaster into her reaction. Soulless -he'd heard it said of him many times, but he'd always held on to the hope that this elusive thing called soul hid somewhere within him. Now, he would have to confront the truth of his condition.

"Nay, child, thou are imbued with soul as are all things on this earth, though right now it parades outside thee."

"Outside?"

"In the form of Miss Catherine Earnshaw."

"Cathy is my soul?"

"Nay, it is more precise to say she carries thy soul, and, in return, thee carry her spirit. There is no separating thee no matter what happens, child, she cannot be complete without thee. Nor thee without her."

"I don't understand."

"Thee will; thy suffering will lead thee to it. For now it is enough to say, thee art imbued with more soul than most. Never let anyone tell thee different. Now, I must help remove the bread from the ovens. Fill thy belly; I'll be back in a bit."

Heathcliff watched Missus Hull go; he held his hand to his chest where he thought his soul might live if Cathy didn't carry it. Maybe that was why people thought him soulless, but they were wrong; all things carried soul. Missus Hull said so, and he believed her. Gazing out the kitchen lattice, he contemplated her words; though most of what she said lay beyond his comprehension, her words brought him happiness like receiving a Yuletide gift greatly desired but thought unattainable. He even memorized them for future meditation. More than anything he wanted to give her something in return.

Searching through the pockets of his coat, he found a small, somewhat puckered crab apple, a hummingbird's nest and some of the lacy moss that hung from old oaks. He spread the collection on the table, lining the nest with soft silver moss and placing the apple inside. His gift complete he followed Missus Hull outside to the ovens of the cookhouse where she bustled about, shouting orders to her servants.

"Master Heathcliff," she huffed, when her work was complete. "What are thee doin' here? 'Tis not a place for guests."

"I've come to walk you back."

Missus Hull smiled at him. "Thank thee, Master Heathcliff. Would thee like a slice of fresh bread?"

"Very much," he said, inhaling the delicious scent. "But first sit with me upon that garden bench." Heathcliff pointed to a seat made from rough cut slabs of granite, nestled in the flowered greenery of the large, kitchen garden.

She regarded him with a perplexed expression that shouted 'I'm so so busy', but then she smiled and nodded. "It's been many a year since a gentleman desired my company upon a garden bench. I would be a fool to pass up such a tryst so that I may work instead."

Once Missus Hull was seated Heathcliff handed her his impromptu gift. "This is for you, Missus Hull," he mumbled, suddenly shy.

"My my, thou art as charmin' as a prince. And look at this! What beauty! I've never had a better present. Thank thee, child."

The two sat quietly side by side in the honeyed light only possible in the early afternoon of late spring. A mild wind ruffled the tree tops sweeping away all of Heathcliff's concerns as he gazed in rapture upon the fragrant, greening world. After a while Missus Hull turned to him.

"Have thee heard the story of the blind prince?" she asked.

"No, I have not. Tell me."

"Once, in a far off land, way out East, there lived a handsome, young prince of surpassin' nobility. He was the youngest of twins who, though identical in feature, differed in every other way. Where our hero was given to deep introspection and clarity of vision; his older twin brother traded in sharp opinions and slick trickery. Where our prince sought to give aid, his twin brought ruin for the joy of it.

"Our young prince was loved by all and his future rosy. But when he turned eighteen he was kidnapped and taken to a high tower in a remote section of his father's palace."

"But why?" asked Heathcliff, who found fairy tales to be nothing but a string of irrational non sequiturs.

"Thee might as well ask why the sky is blue and the earth is green."

"But I don't understand. How could anyone kidnap a prince? He'd be surrounded by knights and guards," protested the skeptical boy.

"Do thee not remember the two princes in the Tower of London?" asked Missus Hull.

"Edward and Richard?"

"The very same."

"So this prince was kidnapped and held prisoner by his ambitious uncle?" guessed Heathcliff, reading between the lines.

"Nay, the how and why of it are not important. 'Tis the metaphor that matters. Now do thee wish to hear what happened?"

"I do."

"Then hold thy tongue and open thy ears. Now, these diabolical kidnapers sealed the tower so that …"

"You mean his uncle, the usurper."

"Nay, I do not."

"Are you sure?" frowned Heathcliff.

"I am; now quiet. The kidnapers sealed the tower so no light entered through either door or window. Our poor prince beat upon the heavy metal entrance to his cell, shoutin' for help for hours and days; until finally in the utter darkness, he fell weepin' in despair.

"His captors brought him simple meals, thrustin' the food into his cell through a narrow openin' in the door which was otherwise latched. And only when that latch clicked and that tiny door fell open did light, dim though it was, enter the room. As time passed the prince could no longer bear the light so when he heard the latch turn, he covered his burnin' eyes.

"After a while, darkness embraced him, and he found his way about the room through some sense other than sight. In order to maintain his sanity he set himself routines. After every sleep he carved a line in the wall beside his bed to track the passage of time. He exercised after meals and practiced sword fightin' before dinner. Now the prince was renowned throughout the kingdom for his singin' voice, so before sleep he chanted ballads or epic poems or even prayers for the dead. Determined to survive, he waited out his captivity with dignity; someone would come for him.

"But as the months wore on his hope flagged. Doubts assailed him. Perhaps his mother and father had imprisoned him. And he set about considerin' why. But no reason came. In things of importance, he had always followed the rules, and look where obedience had got him. There was only one thing that set the prince at odds with anyone - he had been set to marry his beloved cousin, against the wishes of his older twin. Though our prince's parents had agreed to the marriage contract long ago, his older brother had broken protocol, demandin' the contract be nullified. Why? And could this be the reason for his incarceration?

"As time passed, the prince began talkin' loudly to himself as he paced across his cell approachin' madness. Suddenly in the midst of his ravin's, an awareness of his impendin' delirium struck him. So, in order to save his sanity, he hatched escape plans one after the other, though to no avail.

"One mornin' as he dressed in his ragged clothes, he felt the prominent ridges of his rib cage, and he realized he was close to starvin'. It had been several years since his imprisonment, and he found, after contemplatin' his state, he no longer cared about his routines or even whether he would ever be free. But he did wish to see his beloved cousin one more time.

"To that end he crouched cunnin'ly beside the latched openin', waitin' for his meal. When the little door swung open he grabbed for the wrist of his warden, but whoever it was twisted violently free, and, for his punishment, the prince received no food for several days.

"Durin' that time he had a dream, and in that dream he walked the castle corridors, which, though in utter darkness, he had no trouble negotiatin'. He followed the mournful voice of his cousin-bride to his brother's bedroom, but, when he threw open the door, a light so bright flooded the doorway that he was rendered blind. And as he covered his burnin', stingin' eyes a cold voice whispered, 'The only way out for you is death.'

"After that he accepted his betrayal and soon to be death. In plannin' ways to quicken his demise, he recommenced ravin' out loud, pacin' as he did so. He would starve to death. He would not eat another morsel no matter what they brought him. With this thought peace descended on him for this he could control.

"Though his captors continued bringin' him food day after day, from that moment forward the prince ate nothin'. Not a bite! At night he continued to dream of his cousin's mournful voice, but he no longer followed the sound to his brother's bedroom. He understood what had happened; she'd betrayed him. She had married the future king rather than the seemin' lowly prince.

"Instead, in sleep he flew to the parapets where he sat and felt the blessed relief of the chilly breeze as it came sweepin' down from the north. And, though he could no longer see, he threw his head back and gazed where he knew the stars must be.

"On one of these nights high above the castle keep, he realized the end grew close. Strangely exalted by his impendin' death, he stood, and, for the first time in a very long time, he sang aloud to the heavens to receive him in its embrace. But just as he made to leap a sweet, breathy voice answered in the contrary sayin', 'Thee must not do this.'

"'Where are thee?' he called out, wavin' his arms. 'Who are thee?'

"'Someone who loves thee.'

"'Then prepare to mourn; I shall be dead soon.'

"'Thee must wait 'til I find thee.'

"'Are thee not here upon this parapet?'

"'Long have I wandered the castle in search of thee.'

"'If thee are not here, by what magic do I hear thy voice?'

"'Thy own magic.'

"'Again I ask who thee are?'

"'Again I say I am one who loves thee. I came close to findin' thee but thee stopped.'

"'And I never shall again; so do not ask.'

"'But thee did so tonight.'

"'Nay, I did not.'

"'But I did heard thee.'

"'Heard?'

"'Yes, I heard thee, loud and clear.'

"'Thy ears are remarkable, but 'twas another thee heard.'

"'But that is how I found thee; the sound drew me.'

"'And I say I did not partake.'

"'Partake?'

"'Nay, I shall never take food again.'

"'Nay, Sir, it is to thy singin' I refer.'

"'How can thee hear me singin' in a dream?'

"'You dream?'

"'Indeed.'

"'Then wake and sing; for I am close, and time runs short. I would see thee one last time.'

"'And I thee.'

"With that the blind prince awoke, jumped to his feet, and flew to the door of his prison cell where he commenced a balled of love.

"'Tower bound with thorn and thicket  
Thus my father binds me,  
For my sin is authenticity,  
My failure lack of duplicity.

Tower steps of thorn and thistle,  
Seals my lonely fate.  
Phantom lover at the gate;  
Disarms it with a whistle.

My love, in sleep I dream of thee.  
Thy scent and warmth envelop me.  
Thy face familiar yet unknown,  
How I long for thee, my mystery.

"Soon he heard voices, as the key clicked loudly, and, for the first time in many years, he heard the door creak open. Warmth flooded the dank room touchin' the prince's face, but if light came with it the prince could not see it.

"'I shall speak with the prisoner alone,' came a commanding female voice.

"'But my queen,' protested a guard.

"'Leave, me,' she ordered.

"'Get down on thy knees!' shouted the angry guard, shovin' the prince to the floor.

"'Leave me. Do not make me say it again!" commanded the queen.

"On his knees the prince turned away from the voice of his cousin bride."

"'Why do thee turn away, my love?' asked the queen.

"'Thee betrayed me.'

"'Nay, I did not.'

"'You married my brother.'

"'I thought he was thee."

"'How could thee mistake us?'

"'He is thy doppelganger.'

"'But in all other ways we differ.'

"'I found the truth in time. But at first I believed him to be thee for he was on his best behavior. But over time he went back to his old ways – tyrannical, overbearin', argumentative and opinionated. Until one day I shot those opinions back at him. Like arrows they penetrated his false identity, and my love for him disappeared. I have never stopped lovin' thee.'

"'Nor I thee.'

"As he kneeled before her, the queen took his face in her hands, kissin' his lips as she wept. Her tears fell into his unseeing eyes, healin' his blindness. And as he stood to embrace her, the dark prison walls fell away revealin' a beautiful, ancient garden. Here, they finally wed and their happiness was eternal."

Missus Hull wiped the tears from her eyes as Heathcliff scowled at her.

"Did thee not like the story?" asked Missus Hull.

"Didn't the prince fight his evil twin?"

Missus Hull chuckled. "Indeed he did, but not in the way thee might think; our prince embraced his shadowy brother, and, because of this, he went on to become a wise and noble king."

"But what about the queen?" demanded Heathcliff.

"The queen?"

"She was already married; how could she marry the blind prince? Marriage is a binding contract."

"My, my thee are quite the shrewd one. Let me see; ah yes, I remember the first marriage was annulled."

"For what reason?"

"Well, it was under false circumstances; was it not?"

"And that is not legal?" cross examined Heathcliff, his eyes narrowed.

"Nay, it is not. But, dear child, I hope one day thee will see beyond the words and legal technicalities into the heart of the story."

"The heart?" His scowl deepened.

"Indeed, it has somethin' to tell thee that cannot be explained any other way."

"Ah, Missus Hull," said Mister Earnshaw, who watched them from the garden entrance. "I see the boy barrages you with plot holes."

"He likes plots; does he not Mister Earnshaw?"

The two had a hearty laugh as Heathcliff watched them, puzzled.

"Are you laughing at me?" the child demanded.

"Nay, boy," laughed Missus Hull. "Thee are fortunate have such a clever boy for a ward, Mister Earnshaw."

"Indeed, I am, Missus Hull. Now, I must bid you farewell. Come along Heathcliff; I'll walk you to the road, and then we must go our separate ways."

"Wait one moment. I have prepared a few things for Master Heathcliff and Miss Catherine so they may not go hungry on the long walk back to the Heights," said Missis Hull, waddling off to the kitchen.

"Where is Cathy?" asked Heathcliff.

"She is riding to the road in the coach with her little friends."

Heathcliff frowned and kicked the earth.

"I know it is lonely for you, boy, but do not be too hard on Catherine. She's a bit fickle at times; that's all."

Heathcliff did not answer; instead he ran to Mister Earnshaw and took his hand. Missus Hull returned at that moment with a shoulder bag full of food. Opening the bag she showed Heathcliff the contents which included meat pies, fresh bread, cheese and a small vial.

"This is for Missus Earnshaw," said Missus Hull, holding the vial. "Tell her to take three drops with water mornin' and night; it should ease the coughin'."

"Yes, Missus Hull."

"Good boy, now go along, and remember, thee are always welcome here."

"Thank you, Meriel," said old Earnshaw, his face going pink as Heathcliff stared up at him. "You are as always the most gracious of ladies."

"Get on with thee," giggled Missus Hull, her red cheeks deepening to scarlet.

"'Tis true, dear woman," laughed Mister Earnshaw. "They threw away the mold after they made you."

"Hareton Earnshaw …" she continued her giggling. "Good day to thee."

Heathcliff looked from one to the other confounded by this exchange.

"Thank Missus Hull and say good bye, Heathcliff," ordered Mister Earnshaw.

"Thank you, Missus Hull," said Heathcliff with a bow. With that he and Mister Earnshaw set off, but Heathcliff stopped, turning back to Missus Hull. "I will try to get to the heart of the story."

With a tug on Heathcliff's hand, Mister Earnshaw led the way down a narrow path that circled the rear of the inn. After meandering for a while beside a bed of haphazardly planted sweet peas, the sandy path led them to the narrow roadway that would take them down to the Liverpool road. High overhead the sun indicated early afternoon. Thrilled at the thought of the long afternoon ahead, excitement ran through Heathcliff's body like lightning, there would be plenty of time for Cathy and him to play on the trip home. And there would be no one to distract her attention from him.

"Ah, Heathcliff, 'tis a tragedy when a man marries the wrong woman," sighed Mister Earnshaw.

"What about for the woman, Papa? Is it a tragedy for her too?"

"Did I say that aloud?" laughed Mister Earnshaw. "Run along."

Heathcliff released Mister Earnshaw's big hand and ran down the country lane. Exhilarated he spread his arms like wings as he ran. He felt light as a feather floating in a mild breeze.

"Heathcliff," called Mister Earnshaw as they approached the Liverpool road. "Come here, I would have a word before we meet the others."

Heathcliff turned and flew back; his cheeks flushed deep crimson from the exertion of flight. "What, Papa?"

"Promise me you will do your best to behave properly while I'm away."

Heathcliff frowned as he clinched his fists; even Papa thought the worst of him.

"Do not look at me like that; I understand the situation better than you think! Will you promise?"

"I shall," answered the child, scuffing his foot with anger.

"If, for some reason, there is serious trouble at the Heights, leave and make for the Dragon's Knight. I have made arrangements with Missus Hull, and I shall return here on the way back."

"What trouble, Papa?"

"Anything that might lead to harm. And do not wait for Catherine; come on your own if you cannot find her."

"But, Papa, I cannot leave without Cathy. I must protect her."

"Promise me!"

"I promise, Papa …" replied Heathcliff, confused. "But what …"

"As to that vial of medicine, you must turn it over to Cathy. She will give it to Missus Earnshaw, and, should anyone ask, I purchased it for the mistress from Doctor Robinson who we met upon the road."

"But we met no doctor."

"What are you to tell her?"

"Must I lie?" frowned Heathcliff.

"I repeat; what are you to tell her?" demanded Mister Earnshaw.

"We met Doctor Robinson upon the road, and you bought the mistress medicine."

"Indeed, well said. Now give me the bottle."

Heathcliff handed the man the vial as Mister Earnshaw took a handkerchief embroidered with his initials from his pocket and tied it around the vial, which he placed in Heathcliff's vest pocket.

"One more thing, do not tell anyone we visited the Dragon's Knight. And hide that bag before you reach the Heights."

"But what of Cathy?"

"I have already instructed her. This is to be our secret."

"A secret," said Heathcliff, a confirmed lover of secrets.

"For just the three of us. So if you wish to accompany me to the tavern again, mums the word."

"I shall tell no one, Papa."

"Good lad."

When they reached the Liverpool Road where the bright yellow carriage waited, Heathcliff gazed at the scene with delight, instantly forgiving Cathy her earlier breach of his trust, for now she climbed out the window and up the side of the gaudy carriage onto the roof. From there she leapt into the coachman's seat where she demanded the reins.

"Cathy," shouted Heathcliff, waving and laughing. She turned to him, grinning, and beckoning him to join her.

"Catherine Earnshaw! Come down from there, immediately" shouted Mister Earnshaw. "That is no place for a young lady."

Heathcliff flew to the coach, climbing to the roof, and leaping into the seat next to Cathy.

"Get down, both of you," ordered Mister Earnshaw, waving his cane at them. "We must be on our separate ways."

The two children clambered down the side of the coach, laughing and shouting in high spirits. They ran in circles around the carriage, ignoring Mister Earnshaw as Mandy and Belinda giggled, poking their heads through the coach's window like little birds waiting to be fed.

"You promised to be good children! This is not a good start. Come here! Now!" shouted Mister Earnshaw, his face a mask of anger. At this the two children came to a halt before the frustrated man. "Pledge to me, you will remember what I have said," demanded their Papa.

"We so pledge, Papa," giggled the two in unison.

"Now go along," said Mister Earnshaw, a smile briefly crossing his face as he waved them off.

"When will you be home?" asked Heathcliff, taking the man's hand, for the boy had trouble with goodbyes. They opened an abyss inside him.

"Most likely day after tomorrow if not then the next day."

"Hurry back," said Heathcliff, playing with the man's fingers.

"Well, I'm glad someone will miss me," sighed Mister Earnshaw, squeezing Heathcliff's small hand and then climbing into the coach.

19


	10. The Long Way Home

**Chapter 10: Baby Birds and the Consequences of Cruelty  
Part Three: The Long Way Home  
**by Ivy Rangee

**Heathcliff**

From a hilltop on the road to Liverpool, Heathcliff and Cathy watched the bright yellow coach carrying Mister Earnshaw receded into the distance before they commenced the long walk back to the Heights. Elated by the golden day, Heathcliff took off running with such vigor that each time a foot touched down upon the earth puffs of dust leapt into the air, like crown halos created by drops of rain in glassy ponds. Excitement pulsed through his body at the thought of the long afternoon ahead. An afternoon alone with Cathy – the best girl ever.

He could hear her running behind him, her breath rapid, so he slowed that she might catch him. He felt so happy a children's rhyme popped into his head.

"Goodbye triangle," sang Heathcliff as he trotted down the road.

"Hello square," shouted Cathy.

"Squares of cheese," shouted Heathcliff, throwing his arms over his head in exaltation.

"Cheese is white, white like a rabbit," said Cathy, when she caught up with him.

"A rabbit hops, hops like a frog," Heathcliff shot back.

"A frog is green, green like an apple…" laughed Cathy.

"You can peel an apple," replied Heathcliff.

"Peel like a snake's skin," returned Cathy.

On the word skin, the road began to climb steeply, and the exertion demanded silence. When they reached the highest crest of the Liverpool road they slowed, surveying the countryside. Executing an about face, Heathcliff commenced skipping backwards and, glimpsing a cloud of dust in the distance, he pointed to it.

"Is that Papa?" asked Cathy, turning her head to follow his finger.

"Maybe," said Heathcliff, spinning about to face home.

"I wish I could go to Liverpool like Belinda and Mandy," pouted Cathy, coming to a halt and stomping her foot.

Heathcliff stared at the ground, his feelings hurt; she did not wish to be with him upon the moor. That was how it had been lately; at the Heights she was always off with her mother, sewing or weaving, while he was banished to the moor with only sheep for company.

"What is Liverpool like, Heathcliff?" asked Cathy.

"How would I know?"

"But Papa brought you from there."

"I do not recollect."

"Come, come you must remember something." She stood imperiously, arms akimbo, nose in the air.

Gazing at her, Heathcliff considered whether to tell her of his dim recollections of the dank warehouse full of stolen children, or of how he had been tethered to a pallet while awaiting a buyer. But Papa had warned him against relating this knowledge. Perhaps he should spin a yarn; maybe he could regain her love with a tall tale.

"Liverpool is not a place for the likes of you, Cathy Earnshaw."

"But why, Heathcliff?"

"It is full of pirates and cutthroats of the most ruthless sort."

"I'm not afraid."

"Then you are foolish."

"I can fight as well as any boy – even you! It would be such an adventure. Did you meet any of these cutthroats?"

"I did."

"Why have you not told me before this?"

"I am sworn to secrecy."

"Secrecy?"

"Indeed, anyone I tell; I put in the utmost danger. What I tell you, you must swear never to reveal to another."

"I do so swear."

"I'll tell you as we walk. But what route shall we take back to the Heights?"

Cathy twirled in a circle, laughing. "Let's take the long way home. There is no point in rushing; solstice approaches. 'Twill be light 'til near midnight. Besides, Mother will only force us apart once we get back."

Shooting her a sharp glance, Heathcliff frowned. "Then you do not wish it."

"Wish what?"

"To learn sewing and such at your mother's side."

"No! You are the lucky one. All day roaming the moor."

"Not with a bunch of idiot sheep. They are the stupidest; do you know they would stand and die rather than fart?"

"Perhaps they have delicate sensibilities and are too embarrassed to fart in front of you," laughed Cathy. "You carry a very judgmental arch to your eyebrow."

"Trust me, nothing embarrasses sheep. When will you be free to come upon the moor with me?"

"Today, Heathcliff, today! Let's make the most of it. But I must find my shoes and stockings or I'll never hear the end of my mother's reproaches."

"I know where they are," said Heathcliff as he set off at a trot.

"But the story!" shouted Cathy.

"What story?"

"About the pirate cutthroats."

"We'll stop when we get to the old oak grove, but you owe me a story first."

"And what story is that?"

"The sign above the Dragon Knight's Tavern. Now let's have a run."

The two set off, racing over the Liverpool road, the butter-yellow light of a June sun warming their skin. Heathcliff loved this time of year - just before the summer solstice; it seemed pregnant with untold possibilities. Unknown secret possibilities, both deeply desired and anxiously anticipated. The wispy spring air and the clear nature of the light soothed him. Soon enough summer would bear down upon the earth with all its intensity and, though its bright, unrelenting beauty could not be denied, the spring with all its mysteries held him in its thrall.

Heathcliff felt the same about autumn; both spring and fall brought change while summer and winter crystallized those changes. He had a natural affinity for advent - the time when something secret and new hid just around the corner.

A mile later, the two children cut to the right, trotting single file down a narrow animal path through tall, tasseled grass, sending a cloud of insects fluttering into the air as they passed. This barely discernible footpath took them careening down a steep incline, dropping them into a sandy gulley lined with stunted bushes. They followed the sand path for several miles until it climbed steeply into a stand of ancient oaks that stood sentinel on the edge of the Height's pasture land. A favorite destination for Heathcliff and Cathy, the place held an atmosphere remarkably clear and fresh. Beneath the tall spreading trees Heathcliff always felt as if he'd penetrated another world unsullied by the sorrows of this one. Stretching his arms heavenward, Heathcliff turned in a circle as if giving praise to the venerable oaks, and then took the canvas bag full of Missus Hull's delights from around his shoulders and dropped it to the ground.

"I love this place," said Heathcliff, breathing deeply.

"Me too," said Cathy, going to him and putting her arms around his waist.

Smiling at her, Heathcliff broke free, running to the tallest, most imposing oak, and climbing into its canopy as if born to it. In the crook of a high branch he found Cathy's shoes and stockings, and he carried them down to her, taking huge leaps from branch to branch. Once upon the ground, he fell to one knee, holding the objects of his quest out to her.

"Your shoes, my Queen."

"Thank you, Sir Knight," giggled Cathy, receiving them. "Heathcliff, what is in the bag?"

"Food from Missus Hull."

"I'm very hungry."

"Help yourself," said Heathcliff, handing her the bag.

Taking a seat on the soft dark earth beneath the ancient tree, Cathy leaned against its broad trunk where she opened the big canvas bag and examined its contents. With a smile, she popped a round, child-sized meat and veggie pie into her mouth, rolling her eyes with delight. Watching her, Heathcliff's stomach prodded him with a loud growl. He felt its longing too, that emptiness that calls for filling; so he joined her. The smell of spices spread through the grove as the two devoured the tasty, little pies until none remained. With their bellies full they sprawled against the tree trunk and groaned.

"Missus Hull is the best cook in the world; is she not Cathy?"

"Indeed, when we are masters of the Heights, we shall entice her there and never release her."

"But she does love the Dragon's Knight; as benevolent monarchs we cannot be so cold hearted. No, we shall send for our food."

"No!" said Cathy, her tone imperious. "We shall annex the Dragon's Knight into our kingdom."

"That is not the way, Cathy."

"Then how?"

"We will make her a duchess if she swears fealty to us."

"Very tricky, but Missus Hull seems beyond such temptations."

"I think no one is," said Heathcliff with a groan. His belly strained at the buttons of his vest so he loosed them, afterwards running his hands up and down the great roundness of his tummy while thinking of the poor, starving, blind prince whose ribs protruded so noticeably. As the vest fell open, he felt the vial filled with the medicinal draught meant for Missus Earnshaw.

"Here, Cathy," he said, taking it from his pocket. "Papa says you are to give this draught to the mistress; and you must say it came from Doctor Robinson who we met upon the road. Three drops in water every morning and evening."

Cathy took it and removed the handkerchief. "What is it for?"

"Coughing."

Cathy removed the cork from the bottle and sniffed the contents. "I've had this medicine before. It brings wonderful dreams. Is there any water?"

Heathcliff searched the bag and found a container of diluted wine. "There's this."

"That will do. How about cups?"

Heathcliff rummaged again, and pulled out two small metal cups. "What are you doing, Cathy?"

"You'll see." The girl took the two cups and filled each with diluted wine afterwards carefully spilling two drops of her mother's medicine into each cup. Then she corked and re-wrapped the vial, placing it in her apron pocket.

"But that is medicine," said Heathcliff.

"I know; the apothecary gave me the same last I had a fit."

"But it's for the mistress."

"She will never miss it. Now drink."

Heathcliff eyed her skeptically; he hated medicine.

"Trust me. You will like this," said Cathy, with a grin.

Cathy sipped hers and then commenced eating bread and cheese. As usual Heathcliff gave in and followed suit.

"Now tell me about the pirates," she said, as she chewed.

"You first," said Heathcliff, after taking another sip. "Why did you stare at the sign outside the Dragon's Knight?"

"Alright, I shall go first, but you will not wheedle out of telling a pirate tale."

"You don't trust me, Cathy?"

"It is only you that I trust, Heathcliff," she said, touching his arm. "Did you see the knight and the dragon?"

"Yes," said Heathcliff, finishing his drink. He relaxed against the tree, as a warm feeling of wellbeing spread down his spine, radiating out to his limbs.

"That knight's name is Sir Safir Peleas," said Cathy dreamily. "His dark armor is of a special material forged by the fairy smiths of Avalon. It affords him both protection and power. King Arthur himself gifted Sir Safir with this valuable armor for, though Sir Safir was both low born and a Saracen, he was the handsomest, smartest, bravest and most daring of all knights - ever."

"Sir Safir and Sir Peleas were two separate knights. And whoever heard of fairy smiths?" protested Heathcliff, who had read Blackmore's King Arthur as well as every other book on Arthur and his knights in Mister Earnshaw's library. Not that he'd understood them all.

"There is no catechism when it comes to King Arthur; so do not criticize or I shall go no further."

"But Cathy …"

"Do you wish to hear the story of Sir Safir Peleas or the same old stories repeated?"

"How do you know that is the knight's name?" grumbled Heathcliff.

"Heathcliff, what has become of your imagination? You are getting very dull!"

"So you imagined his name?"

"Indeed."

"How is that valid?" asked Heathcliff, his eyebrow an arch raised high, his mouth a slash turned down.

"Heathcliff, you will never get anywhere without imagination," chided Cathy. "Truly you are going dark."

"But how can the story be true if you've made it all up?"

"It is true like a metaphor is true."

"The meaning of the story versus the exact definition of the words," replied Heathcliff, thinking of Missus Hull's admonishment.

"Yes, that is exactly what I mean, besides the knight could hardly come down from the sign and introduce himself. Though that would be an amazing story - imagining that he did so," said Cathy.

"Go on then…I'm listening. Sir Safir Peleas, though both low born and a Saracen was the handsomest, smartest, bravest and most daring of all King Arthur's men. "

"And did I say deeply fascinating?"

"No."

"Indeed, he was. And it was while on his Grail quest that he crossed paths with the dragon. But I get ahead of myself. Did you see the city that lay across the river from where the brave knight fought?"

Having a prodigious memory, Heathcliff closed his eyes and brought the carved and painted sign before his mind's eye; the image shimmered a bit before coming into focus - a river with a city on one side and a forest on the other. For some reason this brought the warehouse where he'd been held captive to mind. "Yes, I remember."

"Well, it was to that place, the golden city of Myzithras that Sir Safir traveled, though it lay on the edge of an impenetrable wilderness."

"But why?" asked Heathcliff. "What brought him there?"

"While in the Rhodope Mountains a forest hermit revealed to Sir Safir that the questing beast, for which the knight searched, had been captured and dragged to Myzithras where the poor creature languished, held prisoner by the city's king."

"How can the questing beast be captured? It's deadly."

"Heathcliff!"

"You are completely breaking with legend, Cathy!"

"In this story each knight has his own questing beast."

"Why?"

"It is an omen."

"An omen? How can a monster be an omen?"

"An omen and a guardian."

"Cathy …"

"Are you thick, Heathcliff?! If I explain it to you then the story will be ruined."

"Ah, I see, though I reserve the right to come back to it later. Go on."

"The holy hermit told Sir Safir Peleas that if he could make peace with and then release the poor beast, it would, in gratitude, transform and then lead him to the Grail King's castle. But with one caveat."

"And what is that?" said Heathcliff, who was beginning to see the story appear before his inner eye.

"Can you guess?"

"Sir Safir must call the creature by name; it's always the same."

"Indeed, Heathcliff, but do you know why?"

"Not yet. But how will he find the name?" asked Heathcliff.

"The hermit whispered the terribly complicated name to Sir Safir, but the poor knight forgot it immediately upon the sound of the last syllable. He begged the hermit to repeat the name one more time, but the hermit sadly refused. Sir Safir promised the holy man gifts of gold and silk but to no avail …"

"A hermit has no need of such things," interrupted Heathcliff, resting his head on Cathy's shoulder. "His purpose lies elsewhere. What if Sir Safir offered to take the hermit with him to the Grail Castle?"

"Even that could not move the hermit to repeat the strange name, for, as he warned Sir Safir, the sound held too much power. But the hermit consoled the poor knight, promising that when the time came the name would emerge from darkness."

"What if he tied the hermit up and dangled the old coot from a precipice?" asked Heathcliff.

"Do you think a Knight of the Round Table would do such a thing?"

"Maybe, after all, except for Sir Galahad, none of the knights were angels. Even Arthur had an illegitimate son by his own sister."

"Half-sister … but Arthur did not know that at the time."

"It's like that king who married his mother," mused Heathcliff. "He did not know either. Fate seems to work through ignorance."

"What a clever thing to say," observed Cathy, putting her arms around him and kissing the top of his head.

"Thus Mordred became the instrument of Arthur's destruction."

"Do you feel sorry for Mordred?" asked Cathy.

"I feel sorry for them all, but back to that stubborn hermit. Did Sir Safir find a way to loosen the old man's tongue? "

"Sir Safir Peleas did not tie the hermit up nor did he torture him. He is not that kind of knight."

"Have it your way. So what did Safir do?" grumbled Heathcliff.

"Sir Safir road hard upon his mighty steed, Bastion, making it to the magnificent city of Myzithras, which lay along the river Nestus, as the sun set. And just as he entered, the city's guards locked down the gates."

"How did he find the questing beast?" asked Heathcliff, sitting up and stretching as he turned his eyes to the sky. The breeze had picked up and the treetops overhead shuttered in a sudden strong gust.

"The creature was the talk of the city so he found its whereabouts quite easily. The king held the enchanted animal in the highest chamber of the tallest tower of his castle. Sir Safir wasted no time, but, unfortunately, that night, as he snuck into the castle, he was caught and brought before the city's king, who took an instant liking to the handsome knight."

"I still don't understand how a questing beast can be held captive."

"Heathcliff," growled Cathy. "I explained that; this questing beast is peculiar to Sir Safir."

"Go on, go on," he said, sliding to the ground and resting on his side. "Don't mind me."

"The king had done something diabolical. He had imprisoned this questing beast in order to lure Sir Safir Peleas to his castle, for he had need of the great knight's skills."

"How exactly does one catch a magical beast?" asked Heathcliff with a hint of sarcasm.

"The king, whose full name was Ignaz Alfons Nichloas Hohenhouz von Edendorf, by the way, had in his service a great many magicians, and, though not one was of Merlin's stature, as a group they managed better than most. It was they who found the hiding place of Sir Safir's questing beast. And they made spells and a magical cage so that the mysterious creature might be waylaid and spirited to Myzithras."

"But why?" asked Heathcliff, doodling a picture of the beast in the earth with his finger.

"I told you why. Really, Heathcliff, you are insufferable today."

Heathcliff sat up and gazed upon the person he loved most in all the world. "I'm sorry, Cathy. Truly, I've missed you since you've become an indoor lady. And you are right; without you I am quite dull."

Cathy smiled at him. "I've missed you too."

"Then why did you ignore me at dinner?"

"I got carried away, and you must admit you have been difficult lately – always asking for reasons."

"I shall listen attentively," replied Heathcliff, reclining on his elbow.

"I like it better when you add to the story."

"But I thought you didn't care for my remarks."

"Well I do, but I don't like it when you find fault all the time."

"So noted; now why did King Ignaz Alfons Nichloas Hohenhouz von Edendorf need Sir Safir's help?"

"You remembered his whole name!" Cathy clapped her hands in delight.

"Of course, it's a fantastic name."

"King Ignaz had a beautiful, smart, brave, and daring daughter, Princess Arianna."

"Naturally." Heathcliff rolled his eyes in derision.

"Heathcliff!"

The boy laughed; he loved teasing his Cathy. "Was she deeply fascinating too?"

"Yes, she was the very mirror of Sir Safir."

"And did he fall deeply in love with her?"

"Not exactly … you see he fell in love with her portrait, for before he arrived in Myzithras the princess had been carried away, given to pirates by her evil older brother, Prince Casmir."

"Pirates?! … In King Arthur?!" This struck Heathcliff as so utterly implausible that he laughed, and the more he thought of it the funnier it seemed until he lay doubled up in hysterics. This was so typical of Cathy – to interject, from nowhere, something completely foreign. It was one of her most endearing qualities.

"Yes, pirates," glowered Cathy, kicking him. "As long as there have been ships at sea there have been pirates."

"Ow! Why'd you do that?" asked the boy, rubbing his side.

"You're making fun of me."

"No, I'm not. It's just that before I could stop it a vision of Blackbeard at King Arthur's Court appeared before my eyes."

"How about Captain Kidd?" laughed Cathy.

"Indeed, 'arg hand over yer gold! And, by the way, how much is that shiny stuff ye art wearin' worth?'"

"Do ye rust in the rain?" giggled Cathy. "Those metal suits are not advisable at sea."

"Armor at sea – those poor knights would drop to the bottom like a lead weight on a fishing pole."

The two laughed, as Heathcliff leapt to his feet, climbed the tree and, stepping out on a branch, did a spot on rendition of a knight in shining armor sinking like a stone after walking the plank. Cathy followed and the two continued with various scenarios until they wore the subject out.

"But why would a prince do away with his sister?" said Heathcliff; his silliness spent, he yawned as both he and Cathy settled down beneath the ancient oak.

"Because of a prophecy."

"Bloody hell, Cathy! Does there always have to be a damned prophecy?"

"Indeed, it is mandatory! And you had better not let my mother hear you speak like that or you will get a whipping."

"Damn it to bloody hell! Let her try!" shouted the boy. "I repeat! Damn it to bloody hell!"

"Heathcliff!"

"Come on, Cathy you used to swear all the time. You've gone soft with all that knitting and stuff."

"I have not! I curse under my breath every time my mother corrects me!"

"You do?"

"Indeed."

"What do you say?" asked Heathcliff, thrilled by the knowledge that Cathy secretly cursed while sewing.

"Well, whenever mother examines my sampler, she says, 'Catherine, your stitching lacks regularity. Tear it out and redo it. And this time concentrate, girl!'"

Heathcliff laughed with delight; Cathy's imitation of the gloomy, angry woman cheered him. As the focus of Missus Earnshaw's fury, Heathcliff suffered daily humiliation at her hands. It was a great release to laugh at her without fear of reprisal. "But when do you swear?"

"As I tear out the stitches I murmur, 'Damn it to hell, I hate you, you stupid, bloody bitch.' I whisper it like a prayer, and she praises me for my piousness."

"You are the best, Cathy," giggled Heathcliff. "I shall make an excuse to visit the sewing room that I may join you as you pray so devoutly."

"Oh, you must stay away, Heathcliff. If I see you I'll laugh and she will blame you for it."

"To pray in such a manner before that gorgon would be worth a season in hell."

"Don't say that. I cannot bear the way she treats you."

"Do not fret, Cathy, I can take whatever she gives; put your mind at ease. I'm curious; finish the story."

"Where was I?"

"A prophecy."

"Oh, yes … In this kingdom whenever a royal child was born the magicians cast a chart to discover the child's fate. Princess Arianna's showed she would marry a magnificent warrior who would one day become king and lead the city to greatness. Her brother feared the prophecy would rob him of his right to the throne so he did away with the princess."

"What did Prince Caspar's chart predict?"

"It was so bad that the King swore his magicians to secrecy and then he had a false version prepared."

"But what did it say?"

"That Prince Caspar would fall by his own weakness."

"How did Sir Safir get the princess back?"

"You skip ahead."

"Ah, of course, the questing beast."

"Indeed," said Cathy. Heathcliff could see how happy she was that he'd followed the thread of her story. Thus he redoubled his efforts to please her.

"As I said the king took an instant liking to Sir Safir Peleas, but even so he refused to release Sir Safir's questing beast until the knight found and returned the Princess Arianna. To that end King Ignaz showed Sir Safir the princess's portrait, the sight of which caused the knight to fall in love.

"Sir Safir set out in search of the pirates, but by the time he caught them, the pirate captain had delivered Princess Arianna, on the orders of her brother, into the hands of an evil witch. When Sir Safir demanded her whereabouts the outlaw captain said the witch held the princess in a tower deep in the forest that lay across the river."

"Prince Casper knew the witch?" asked Heathcliff.

"The witch, Elena Decano, was the prince's lover or, at least that is what she thought, but, in truth she deluded herself. The prince loved no one and never would. He was like Narcissus, obsessed with his own reflection."

"What was Sir Safir's next move?"

"Well, the pirate captain hated Prince Casper, who he referred to as a pampered, spoiled coward. In fact, the outlaw leader had fallen in love with Princess Arianna, but the captain had had no choice. Prince Casper had threatened him and his crew with death by hanging if they did not comply. In order to set things right, the pirate took Sir Safir to the very spot where he'd dropped the witch and the princess. Meanwhile, back in the city Myzithras, Prince Casper climbed the spiral staircase to the tower where Sir Safir's questing beast was imprisoned."

"Ah, yes, of course, the prince released the beast so it might fly into the forest," said Heathcliff, gazing up at Cathy's face. "That's inspired."

"And why is that?" asked Cathy, smiling at him.

"Because Prince Casper knew Sir Safir Peleas was the one prophesized. Too, he knew the knight would not rest until he found the pirates. Thus he hoped by releasing the beast into the forest it would find Sir Safir and kill the knight in battle."

"You are so clever. Yes, indeed that was his motive. But …"

"Sir Safir remembered the creature's name."

"Yes, Sir Safir followed the witch's trail into the ancient woods, for he was very good at tracking, and Witch Elena's tracks were easy to follow because they had been carved deeply into the earth by the great cart in which she confined the princess. Too she was very confident she would not be followed and so made no effort to cover her trail.

"So it was that the knight penetrated deeper into unknown territory until he came face to face with his own personal questing beast. The beast hissed and glared at the knight who drew his sword. They fought day and night for the dragon was a fierce creature and this was its territory. Sir Safir might have succumbed but for his manly attributes and enchanted armor."

Heathcliff giggled.

"Why are you laughing? It is hardly appropriate to the story."

"'Sir Safir might have succumbed but for his manly attributes and enchanted armor.' When we are free and on our own you might support us making a living as a romance writer."

"Do you really think so?"

"Indeed, I do." Drowsy, Heathcliff said this with his eyes closed. "Go on."

"After three full days and nights, Sir Safir fell back gazing up at the heavens. With his strength waning, the dragon approached, and in despair the knight felt the end to be close. But from that darkness, Princess Arianna's face appeared and with that vision came the dragon's name. Sir Safir shouted the strange words upon which the dragon yielded, transforming into a gleaming unicorn. The horned creature, gifted with speech, offered the knight a reward for his persistence and valor. Thus it was Sir Safir told the creature his tale of woe. The dragon now unicorn, a sympathetic sort, granted Sir Safir a boon, leading him to a hill that rose above the forest's tree tops. At that place, the plateau, from which a dark tower rose, was clearly visible. Sir Safir and his unicorn set out immediately, for in that tower the princess languished."

"Wait," interrupted Heathcliff. "What was the dragon's name?"

"Nagaraja Kiyohime Cintamani Shehsha."

"No wonder Sir Safir couldn't remember the name. What about the unicorn?"

"Its name was the same; after all it is the same being in a different form."

"And how did he call it?"

"Sir Safir shortened it to Lord Shehsha. The two had many adventures as they made their way to the tower, and Lord Shehsha showed the knight many hidden byways from which Sir Safir gained much secret knowledge and wisdom. But finally, after many days of travel, they came to the place where the plateau rose from the forest floor."

"And from then on Sir Safir was on his own?"

"No, Lord Shehsha led the knight up a narrow trail to the top of the plateau, for if he hadn't the knight would have been lost, so invisible was the way. Once on top they found a thick forest of bent and thorny trees. Lord Shehsha suggested they rest over night, but Sir Safir would have none of it so they set off, searching for an entry to the spiky wilderness."

"But there was no way in," yawned Heathcliff.

"How did you know?" asked Cathy, stretching her arms and yawning too. "You are right; there was no entry. They were unable to find a single opening; finally, Sir Safir fell to his knees and crawled into the forest of thorn trees. Lord Shehsha could not enter for he had not the proper form for such maneuvers. Sir Safir shouted for the unicorn to wait and then dropped to his belly pulling himself along by his arms."

"Thus he slithered like a snake for a very long time utterly lost," said Cathy, stifling another yawn. "Until one day he heard weeping. Following the lament, he made his way ever closer, believing it was Arianna who wept. After a time the trees became sparser until he crawled bleeding and scarred into an open field from the center of which rose a tower. The tower of stone …" Cathy's voice trailed off and after a few moments Heathcliff opened his eyes to find she dozed.

"Cathy! Wake up!"

"Oh Heathcliff, I'm so sleepy let's meet in our dreams and finish the story there."

"Will you cuddle with me?"

"Of course," she said, sliding down to face him. Heathcliff reached for her hand.

"We'll meet where the rainbow ends?" he asked, grasping her hand tightly.

"No … where the rainbow starts …" she laughed.

"Where the rainbow starts …" said Heathcliff, drifting off into a deep, dark sleep.

Searching for the root of the rainbow, Heathcliff found himself in a thick forest, walking a rarely-used, narrow path. The trail seemed to go on endlessly, and the boy worried that Cathy in her impetuosity would not wait for him. This dream dragged him down with its thick gravity, but he persevered, finally reaching the entry to a cave where he sat down, hoping Cathy would find her way soon.

This cave led to the place where the rainbow ends or starts depending on one's perspective, and the two children had invented it as way to play together during the dream state. It had been easy at first, but lately their meetings had been rare and when they did happen, abbreviated. Heathcliff always made it here; it was Cathy who failed, but not today.

"Heathcliff," called Cathy.

"This way," said Heathcliff, standing.

She took forever to reach him, but when she did they hooked arms, entering the cave. Today the cave was dry and glowed with a dim illumination from an unknown source; this was not always so. The state of the cave varied; sometimes it was dark or muddy or foul smelling or even blindingly bright.

"We are lucky today," said Cathy as they moved swiftly down the underground corridors. "I hate it when it's dark, and muddy."

"Is that why you don't meet me anymore?"

"Sometimes I can't concentrate."

"Don't fail me today, Cathy; I must know how the story ends."

"So you will," she laughed as they exited the cave to stand on a high ridge.

Before them spread a grassy valley surrounded by snow covered mountains peaks. A narrow path leading to a glassy lake lay at their feet, and they set off singing.

"Red roof on a green hill top,  
A bell tower shaped like a pixie hat.  
The bell rings, ding-dong-ding  
Oh, ding-dong-ding."

Once at the lake, they circled it along a white sandy beach until they arrived at a clear cold stream the bubbled down from the mountains. At this place where stream entered lake a rainbow grew from the clear, cold water.

"Are you ready to go through?" asked Heathcliff.

"I am, but what form shall we take?"

"Merlins."

"Why?"

"They fly high and have keen sight."

"But lapwings are not as noticeable."

"Not lapwings again."

"We can watch from within the thicket."

"As you wish," sighed Heathcliff, giving in as always. He found it impossible to deny her anything. "Now don't lose your concentration when we enter the rainbow."

"I have the image fixed in my mind."

"Good, let's go," said Heathcliff, taking her hand and leaping through the rainbow.

Leaping the rainbow required courage, energy and concentration in order to assemble the world on the other side. More than once either Heathcliff or Cathy or sometimes both did not make it through or the world they entered was nothing like the one they expected. But not this time, when they came out the other side they flew as lapwings above the river that separated the urbane city from the dark forest.

Heathcliff reconnoitered as Cathy flew erratically about, this way and that. He could tell she was getting lost in the form of the bird, and he dived at her, screeching in lapwing, of course, loss of human speech being a drawback to the bird form. His actions seemed to bring her back for she flew beside him as he banked and headed for the stone tower in the thorn thicket.

In no time, they arrived at the tower, perching on the top and watching as Sir Safir wandered about the grassy meadow that surrounded the tower. The weeping had stopped, and all that could be heard was the wind. Heathcliff and Cathy turned their feathered heads to each other as Heathcliff wondered at the knight's actions. Cathy nodded to the edge of the thorn thicket as the witch, Elena Decano, emerged from it, enchanting the vines to separate as she did so.

"Sir Safir," she laughed. "You almost made it, but now all is lost, as blindness blackens your world."

"How?" asked the knight.

"The thorns are poisonous."

"Will you not have mercy?"

"Mercy?"

"I am no longer a threat; lead me to the Princess Arianna so that I might kneel before her."

"Why not? It is sure to increase your suffering which in turn will increase my happiness."

"But, Witch Decano, why do you wish me ill?"

"You knights and your obsessive love make me sick."

"My obsessive love?"

"That is what I said. Are you an idiot?"

"Perhaps, but I think it is not my love that is obsessive."

"You make no sense."

"Ah, well, I suppose that is the bane of an idiot."

"Bear your throat," said the witch, searching through a leather bag that hung from her shoulder. Sir Safir did as asked and the witch fastened a leather lead to his neck. "Stay close."

Heathcliff and Cathy flew down to the meadow and perched on a low flowering bush for a better view. The witch pulled Sir Safir across the meadow without consideration for his blindness. Every time the poor knight tripped and fell she yanked him to his feet, mocking him. When the two stood before the tower, the witch dropped the leash. In deep anticipation Heathcliff and Cathy watched as Elena Decano spread her arms and began to chant.

"Thorn and thicket,  
Tower guardians,  
Hear the order  
Of thy mistress,  
Unwind, unbind!  
Unveil, Reveal!  
Release thy Door!"

With those words the torn thicket drew back, twisting and turning as it retraced its convoluted path. And as the witch requested a wood and metal door appeared.

"By the sound of my beloved's name  
I command thee open.  
Prince Caspar Alois Trancy Hohenhouz von Edendorf. "

A latch clicked and the door rose, revealing stone steps as the witch took up Sir Safir's leash and with a yank dragged him up the staircase. Cathy and Heathcliff eyed each other after which Heathcliff flew to the tower's high window where he lit upon the sill. Cathy followed and perched beside him.

Inside a woman stood in the center of the circular room as Elena Decano and Sir Safir climbed the last step.

"Look what I found wandering around outside," said the witch. "A tomcat looking for …"

"Cease," shouted Sir Safir, and blind as he was he lunged at the witch, seizing her by the neck and squeezing. Elena Decano fought back, but she could speak no incantations which left her defenseless. When her flailing ceased, he let her go, and she fell in a heap upon the stone floor.

"Princess Arianna? Are you here?" asked the knight, kneeling.

The princess was understandably afraid and crept around him, making for the stairway. But then she stopped. She seemed taken by the knight as she gazed at his face.

"You cannot see me?" asked the princess. Her voice was lovely.

"I was blinded by the poison thorns that surround this tower."

"How did you come here?"

"Your father asked me to rescue you."

"Your rescue seems to have failed. Now you have killed the witch, how will we ever get through the thorn thicket?"

"I know the incantation that compels the thorn thicket to recede. If you will take my hand and show me the way, I shall chant the words."

"You are blind because of me; I am sorry for that. Who are you?"

"Pardon my manners. Sir Safir Peleas, Knight of the Round Table at your service."

"And how did my father find such a fine knight to rescue me?"

"He captured my questing beast."

"So he forced you to come for me."

"No, when I saw your portrait, I fell in love, my dear Lady."

"If you saw me now you would be repulsed, Sir."

"I would not, Lady. Now let us depart," he said, standing.

"I cannot," she wept.

"But why?"

"I have become a hag."

"I doubt that."

"Elena Decano has used me most cruelly. Time passes quickly in this stone tower; I've grown old. I can never go back to Myzithras; I am ruined, Sir Safir."

The knight reached out to her. "Take my hand, Princess Arianna. I care not how you look. I'm blind after all. I only desire the woman whose kind heart shown so clearly through lovely violet eyes in the castle portrait. I pray that heart is still intact, for if it is, those eyes have not changed."

"Sir, you move my heart."

"Let that be impetus to move your feet."

Princess Arianna brought his hand to her lips and kissed it as he reached out and touched her face with the other, gently brushing her tear-stained cheek.

"Be my wife," said Sir Safir. "I love you."

"And I you," said Princess Arianna.

At which the knight took her in his arms and kissed her. This was followed by a deep embrace which was too much for Heathcliff, and he spread his wings, flying back down to the meadow where he waited for Cathy who still watched through the window.

In the butter yellow sunlight, Heathcliff perched upon a blade of tall grass, riding it as it bobbed in the warm afternoon wind. The feeling delighted him, and he fell into a deep, dreamy state, completely forgetting his purpose in coming to this place. Cathy woke him from his reverie, flying at him while crying the distinctive 'peewitt' of the lapwing. He lifted off and flew beside her as she followed the knight and his princess. All the while Sir Safir chanted the incantation and the thorn thicket fell away before them.

The way out seemed shorter and more direct as the princess led the knight down a path that took them to the river. However, now the two lovers had no need of a boat to traverse the water, for a bridge stood where before there had been none. Hand in hand Sir Safir and Princess Arianna walked over the bridge, entering the city in triumph as Cathy and Heathcliff followed them, cavorting in the sky, but Heathcliff was brought up short by a voice from an unknown source.

"Heathcliff! Wake up! That boy comes."

He pondered who spoke.

"You call me the lady," it answered, reading his mind. "Now wake before you are discovered. There is malice in Square-Noggin's heart."

Heathcliff pulled himself from the dream. The lady never lied; Hindley must be near. Heathcliff woke so quickly he felt dizzy, and, as he gained his senses, panic took hold of him. The moon was high in the sky; it must be past midnight. They were in for it; they should have been approaching the Heights by now.

"Cathy! Wake up! Hurry!"

Opening her eyes, Cathy mumbled something and fell back to sleep.

"Wake," he shouted, gathering up the bag from the Dragon Knight's Tavern and hiding it in the ancient oak tree. Once back on the ground he shook her, calling her name, but she would not wake, so he made to lift her over his shoulder and carry her.

"What have you done to my sister, cuckoo?" came Hindley's voice.

"We fell asleep …" said Heathcliff, placing himself between Cathy and her brother as the older boy walked into the moonlit oak grove. At sixteen, Hindley towered over the ten-year-old Heathcliff; in spite of this, Heathcliff considered fighting Cathy's older sibling.

"Pick her up and take her to the wagon, Nellie. I'll take care of this one," said Hindley, bringing his whip down hard on Heathcliff's hand. "My mother has plans for you, scum."

Heathcliff laughed as he held his bleeding hand. He licked the blood away from the wound.

"Why are you laughing, idiot?"

"You think so highly of yourself, Hindley, yet you can't do even the most trifling thing yourself. You need Joseph to wipe your pitiful behind; you'd starve if it weren't for your servants, you useless twit."

"You'll wish you'd never heard the name Earnshaw when we're done with you."

"It won't be for the first time."

* * *

Both children's songs are old Japanese folk rhymes I found in _Barefoot Gen. _ I liked them so much I thought Cathy and Heathcliff would enjoy singing them. I made a couple of changes in 'Goodbye Triangle' to fit the local.


	11. The Well

**Chapter 11: ************Baby Birds and the Consequences of Cruelty**** Part  
Part Four: ************The Well **  


By Ivy Rangee

**Heathcliff**

Waking from a fitful sleep, Heathcliff lay in utter darkness upon a hard earthen floor, his mouth and throat dry like a high desert in late summer. By the smell of it, he inhabited a fetid, dusty place; where, he knew not. Finding breathing difficult, he panted, his hair glued to his head with perspiration. He wondered if he were dead. It was possible; this could a tomb. Cathy had read to him of the heat and dust that torments the dead upon entering Hades. The conflation of these conditions caused such agonizing thirst in the newly dead that they flocked to the River Lethe and drank without a thought of the consequences. At this moment Heathcliff welcomed the oblivion of the waters of forgetfulness. He did not wish to remember the punishments Hindley had inflicted upon him. But, upon reflection, he decided to forgo the temptation of amnesia to suffer, instead, the knowledge of recollection; he could not bear the thought of forgetting Cathy. Just contemplating it caused him to weep in spite of his thirst.

How did Cathy fair, Heathcliff wondered; how much time had passed since he and Cathy returned to the Heights? Two nights at least. They were supposed to have come directly home after saying goodbye to Papa, running every short cut they knew to make it home by dinner time. Instead they'd rebelled: playing games, taking their favorite back trails and telling stories until they'd fallen asleep upon the moor. When Hindley found them after midnight, he'd dragged them home to face his Missus Earnshaw's wrath. She had separated the two children, ordering Hindley to imprison Heathcliff in one of the farm's outbuildings.

Later that first night as the full moon stood low in the west, Missus Earnshaw and the curate arrived; together they'd cross-examined Heathcliff with a litany of peculiar questions about his origins. He could tell them nothing, for the answers lay outside his grasp, within the cloud of early childhood. As he turned from one to the other for an explanation, his two inquisitors ignored him. Instead, their displeasure evident, they'd talked to each other as if Heathcliff had not the wits to understand their words. Shortly thereafter they left the shed, locking him within; Heathcliff crept to the door, to peer through the wood slats. Missus Earnshaw and the curate walked a few paces down the narrow moonlit path, but stopped a short distance away, to engage in heated conversation. At the time Heathcliff had not understood all he heard as he eavesdropped at the door, but now, he reconsidered their words in the light of the last two days.

"_It is as I feared, my dear Missus Earnshaw," said the curate, his hands clasped behind his back while he rocked on his heels. "That boy is not human."_

"_Is he a changeling then?"Her breathe ran short as she wrung her hands._

"_Worse even than that," replied the curate in his high, nasal voice._

_Missus Earnshaw gasped for air. "He is soulless?"_

"_Indeed, but there is more, in my judgment a demon has entered the soulless vacuum within him. His answers were far too clever and evasive. A Gypsy whelp should be as simple as the dog that bore it. The shadow of Satan is upon him."_

"_What can be done?"asked the woman, who panted as if she'd run a marathon._

At this point Heathcliff could hardly hear Missus Earnshaw's words, and he turned his head, pressing his ear to the narrow gap between the wooden boards. In the brilliant moonlight he could clearly see the hay rakes, shovels, sickles and scythes that hung neatly on the opposite wall, and he examined one after the other while he listened.

"_Administer penance and then on the third night I shall baptize him."_

"_How can the soulless be baptized?" Missus Earnshaw sounded incredulous._

"_Prior to baptism, I shall conduct a ceremony we men of the cloth call the Little Soul."The curate said this in triumph as if he were the cleverest man on the planet._

"_Little Soul. But is that not for animals?"Her distain for the idea was plain in her tone._

"_Indeed it is, my good woman; that is why it is so appropriate, given the boy's low birth. This is such an ingenious solution; I am surprised a humble curate such as myself is the first to have thought of it. I shall write a dissertation for the bishop so others may employ it in similar cases," said the curate with obvious glee."You must send for your cousin; I shall need the aid of another as devout as myself."_

"_But Cousin Jabes travels; I doubt he can make it here on such short notice. And Mister Earnshaw despises him."_

"_Ah, but Mister Earnshaw is not here. You must try, my dear woman; that is all I ask."_

"_I'll send word tomorrow, but only if you explain what you are planning." She sounded skeptical._

"_I shall call upon the Holy Spirit to bless the boy just as I would any animal; it will fill the emptiness within him. I'll provide you with proper instructions for the boy's preparation; follow them to the letter. We'll baptize him at Gimmerton Beck by the stand of willows just west of the stone bridge three nights hence."_

"_What will happen to the child … or whatever that thing is? I cannot rest easy leaving my children unprotected with it thing lurking about."Heathcliff detected desperation in the woman's voice._

"_Only the Lord knows, my dear. But have no fear; it will be resolved one way or the other very soon. Just make sure you administer the severest possible penance to drive out the demon."_

"_Will he … survive?" asked Missus Earnshaw._

"_Few survive the penance, let alone the baptism."_

"_Then the boy may die?" She said this with grim satisfaction._

"_Most do in the process of being saved; it is the price they must pay for salvation," explained the curate. "We can only pray that you will find peace whatever the causatum."_

"_I must be sure my Hindley's birthright is not usurped by that beastly child." The vehemence with which Missus Earnshaw spoke these words brought on an attack as she coughed to the point of choking._

"_Come, Misses Earnshaw. Take my arm. You must rest; leave all to me."_

"_My Catherine loves the thing; she plays at marriage with it. How will I rest?"_

"_Calm yourself … You cannot meet your Maker in such distress. You must find peace, for whatever your circumstance at the end, so you will spend eternity."_

"_But if he dies will I be judged a murderer?"pleaded Missus Earnshaw._

"_Nay, Mistress Earnshaw, you do the child a mercy. Should he die, he will not endure the torments of hell, though he shall never find paradise either, he will enter a state …"_

_The curate's voice trailed off, and Heathcliff turned his head to see the man help Missus Earnshaw negotiate the shadowed path. He thought he heard the mistress weeping as they moved in darkness._

At the time Heathcliff had wondered about his destination after death, and he strained to hear the curate's words. However, now, Heathcliff understood; the mistress' cough heralded a serious illness from which she would perish, and she wanted his death to precede hers. It seemed she might get her wish, for every part of Heathcliff's body ached from the punishment he'd suffered. At this moment his wrists burned with pain, tied as they were behind his back. Too, hunger and thirst plagued him, but a small hope fluttered to life in his heart. Papa would return soon; Heathcliff would fight to stay alive until then.

While considering his situation, the young boy brought his knees to his chest, rolling his arms forward so that his hands were before him. If a demon lay within him then so be it; he would use its power. Getting to his knees Heathcliff made a silent pledge, promising the demon that he would cherish it. He had no desire for salvation, especially if it was full of people like the curate and Misses Earnshaw. Instead, he'd seek the demon's aid to survive this ordeal so he might remain forever with Cathy upon this earth.

A nauseating, twisted anguish rose from the pit of his stomach as Heathcliff sat back on his heels. All that he had endured since his imprisonment flashed before his mind's eye, bearing with it profound sorrow and humiliation. How could the curate order such base and evil punishments? This penance had brought him so low that he felt utterly transformed; the child, Heathcliff, that had ran along the Liverpool road three days ago no longer existed. That lad had accepted his place as the whipping boy of the Heights so he might remain by Cathy's side, but he had been blind. There could be no pact with these hungry ghosts for they altered the rules without conscience to suit their prejudice. If he survived this ordeal there would be hell to pay. Already he whispered curses upon his tormentors, giggling as he did so, for the words infused him with a sense of freedom as he broke the chains of his unholy compact with the masters of the Heights. He wished them the same misery they had inflicted upon him. There would be no more bargaining for acceptance; they would never tolerate him. From now on, he would do exactly as he pleased. And Cathy pleased him; she would be his.

In a melancholic reverie his mind wandered to Missus Earnshaw. Her cruelty bewildered him. If she wanted him dead, why did she do it by such a torturous method? Why not just kill him? Why bother with this pretext of saving him? But it came to him, she had said it; she feared committing murder. Killing him under the ruse of saving a base animal eased her conscience. He considered Missus Earnshaw's death, wishing he could stand before her, hand-in-hand with Cathy, as that monstrous woman drew her last gasping breath. With that thought, a heady mixture of hatred and triumph coursed through him, and he smiled. He would outlive her.

The first day of Heathcliff's confinement had been spent in that sweltering shed where the curate and Missus Earnshaw first interrogated him. But that night Hindley had come for him, binding him and then dragging him to a copse of oak on the moor. There Hindley tied Heathcliff to a tree, and, with the help of friends, he'd tormented the younger boy. Closing his eyes, Heathcliff wept at the thought of all he'd endured. Murder would be too good for the lot of them; their punishment would require great cunning. Ellen Dean had been there too, and, though she had added to his suffering, in the end she had stopped the worst of it. Nevertheless, Heathcliff had been unconscious when they bore him to wherever he lay right now.

A night, a day and then part of another night had passed while he hung, tied to the oak. Where had Cathy been? Weeping, he curled into a ball, biting his arm so hard he drew blood. The warm liquid wet his dry mouth. He must survive until Papa came back from Liverpool. But to keep that promise, he must get free before Hindley returned, for tonight they planned to put an end to him. Thus, he bared his teeth, tugging at the ropes which refused to budge. Even drunk as a lord, Hindley could tie a decent knot - about the only thing he could do for himself the pampered, bloody bastard.

Heathcliff gave up on the rope and rolled back onto his knees, deciding to explore his prison. Thinking himself very like the blind prince, he got to his feet, after which he inched along the dusty ground, sliding first one bare foot and then the other forward as he explored the dark tomb. Eventually, his toe touched a wall of stone, and, pressing his shoulder to the cool rock, he followed its contours.

The rock wall took Heathcliff on a circular path which he walked round and round for some time, until he slid to the earthen floor, wondering where he was. He'd explored every inch of the Heights yet he'd never come across a round stone room. In his mind he visualized the grounds, running its boundaries, examining every building, but to no avail for, instead, the effort sent him into a light sleep from which he woke with some urgency. Rest would have to wait; he wasted time. Thus, blind as he was in the pitch darkness, he commenced crawling in a careful grid search, looking for a sharp rock with which to cut his bonds.

Heathcliff had been at this for a short time when, from above, there came a grating sound followed by a rain of pebbles. Looking up, the child gazed into a glaring circle of white. Now blinded by light rather than darkness, Heathcliff turned his eyes away from the direct brilliance, and squinted toward the shadowed stone walls, trying to get his bearings. When his eyes adjusted, he realized he had been dropped into a dry, shallow well; gazing heavenward once again, he saw a rope dangling as if from the pure light of the sun. Upon closer observation, he noticed a dark figure slipping quickly down the corded thread. It couldn't be Hindley; that twit did not have the physical agility for such a maneuver.

"Glory be!" shouted Hugh, the ploughboy, as he leaped to the bottom. "Ye be a sight. And by all tha's holy where be ye clothes?"

Heathcliff looked down; he wore only tattered britches. His chest, arms and legs were covered in cuts and bruises, and his face must look as bad by the way he felt. Humiliated, he turned away without a word.

"That rantallion, Hin'ley, I be bound," continued the bold ploughboy, as, shaking his head, he answered his own question. A fixture at the Heights for the last two years, Hugh stood sturdy as a rock though a head shorter than the younger Heathcliff.

A hearty, well-liked boy, Hugh tied his long blond mane with a bit of frayed string, so that it fell down his back in a messy ponytail. Ever enamored of sea captains thanks to Cathy's stories, he imitated their imagined bearing whenever possible, and now was no exception as, arms akimbo, Hugh marched around Heathcliff, examining him closely.

Heathcliff's thoughts remained on the word rantallion, and he chuckled in spite of himself as a visual crossed his mind. Precocious for his twelve years, Hugh had a grown man's way with oaths. He'd been on his own for six years, and, having picked up cant in his travels, he never failed to entertain Cathy and Heathcliff with his poetic and colorful curses.

"That young master be a bouncer. I hate the bloody pego," grumbled Hugh. "The drunken, cods-head by-blow! Look at what he's done to ye while ta' master's awee."

Heathcliff stared at the dry earth. He wanted to talk, but his mouth was too dry for speech.

"Here, this is for ye," said Hugh with disgust and just a hint of sympathy. "Cook sent me with water and gingerbread for ye. But that's s'pposed to be all! The bundle-tailed old mopsey warned me not to give ye no t'other help."

His bottom lip swollen, Heathcliff returned a sad, crooked smile, attempting to express his gratitude to the ploughboy; at the same time he did not forget his debt to the demon, secretly thanking it for answering his prayer. With the dark being's help, he would change Hugh's mind.

"Jeez. Why are ye squintin'at me like that?" asked Hugh, backing away. "Som'p'thin' wrong with yer peepers? And yer lips are blue like a ghost's. Ye art scarin' me. When's last ye drank?"

Heathcliff shook his head.

"Ye do na' know?!" interpreted Hugh, who commenced pacing back and forth, his tattered, too small shoes sending clouds of dust into the stifling air.

Heathcliff nodded. At this Hugh let loose with a string of oaths so powerful and obscure that they flew up, over Heathcliff's head and out the well's narrow opening. To Heathcliff, they sounded sublimely profane, and he made a note of them.

"Well, take it then," growled the plow boy, handing him a water skin. Hugh stormed back and forth; he seemed in the midst a crisis of conscience. "Jeez, 'tis hotter than bloody hell down here."

Heathcliff held up his roped hands, the sight of which sent Hugh into a fit. His light blue eyes went rapacious and round like an owl that searched for prey in the dead of night, as once again he proved himself a virtuoso of cant curses.

"I s'pose I be bound to set ye free," stormed Hugh, taking a small knife from a scabbard that hung round his neck and grabbing at the ropes. "Bollocks! Sure'n that whore pipe, Hin'ley 'ill know 'twas me set ye free. I'll get a whippin'; yet I canna let ye be. T'would break the cant code; bes' I bugger off."

Heathcliff held his hands out, and Hugh hacked away at the knots, as a litany of swear words escaped his lips in a low, chanting growl. Once set free, Heathcliff grabbed for the water skin, tore off the cap, and took a long pull.

"Bes' ye slow down; 'twill make ye sick on an empty belly," said Hugh with a frown as he kept a close eye on the younger boy.

"Have you seen Hindley?" croaked Heathcliff, after another long drink.

"Nay, but he and that jilt he runs with are plannin' to come for ye just before tea. That's when she gets off."

"How long until tea?"

"Soon enough."

"Are you going to help me escape?" asked Heathcliff.

"Cook said nay," replied Hugh, kicking the dusty ground.

"I'll repay you somehow."

"'T'would be wicked ta let that bollocks ha' at ye."

"Then let's get out of here, Hugh," said Heathcliff, his voice raspy. "Before Hindley catches us. I need that knife; will you lend it to me?"

"Depends. What are ye' planin'?" asked the ploughboy, his eyebrow arched suspiciously.

"To run for it; I'll keep it hidden, but if he catches me I mean to use it as a weapon."

"And where 'ill ye be hiddin' a knife? Ye art near naked."

"In my britches pocket," whispered Heathcliff.

With a sigh Hugh took the blade and scabbard from around his neck. "I owe ye; so here ye are, but that is all I own worth a pence."

"No, Hugh, I will pay you back. Where's the gingerbread?"

"Here," said Hugh, taking it from a bag hung round his shoulders. Heathcliff took the moist, fragrant brown cake in his hands and brought it to his nose, inhaling the clean scent of cloves. When hunger overpowered him, he stuffed his mouth until his cheeks looked like those of a chipmunk who'd labored all day collecting nuts for the winter. Swallowing the cake in one gulp, he set to coughing as crumbs caught in his throat. In desperation, he snatched the water skin, gulping down the rest.

"Hugh, have you spoken with Cathy?" asked Heathcliff when he recovered.

"Nay. Cook says she be bound to 'er room."

"If you see her, will you tell her I'll come for her?"

"I be banned from talkin' ta the young lass," said Hugh. "Cuz' I taught 'er cant, and now she's so bloody good at it she could be a pirate purest-pure. Have ye ever seen the like of her? What a bonnie fair-roe-buck she be." He said the last words with soft reverence.

"Bonnie fair-roe buck, indeed," whispered Heathcliff. "Tell her that no matter what happens I love her. Please, Hugh.

"Why are ye sayin' such a thing?" asked Hugh, his anger clear. "Ye sound like ye are goin' ta die."

"It's the river for me, tonight."

"Jeez, Master Heathcliff. Are they goin' ta drown ye?"

"That's their plan."

"I'm not one for the mushy palaver," said Hugh after a long string of curses. "I canna carry sweet nothin's to yer lady love."

"Oh," said Heathcliff, crestfallen.

"I's'ppose I 'ave no choice but to haul yer bacon outa here so ye can tell 'er yerself. Then ag'in I owe ye."

"No, Hugh, lending me the knife made us even. I'll owe you for getting me out of here. Is there something of mine you want?"

"I'll think on it. For now, let's sherry off, before that bumfiddle, Hin'ley, catches us."

"You first," said Heathcliff.

"Nay, ye."

Heathcliff tried to climb the rope, but he could not, for each time he tried to shimmy up a sharp pain shot through his right shoulder. Dropping to the ground he turned to Hugh. "I can't."

"That's a nasty badge ye bear upon ye back and nub. Let me have a look," said Hugh, peering at the younger boy's neck and shoulder. Heathcliff stood silent, letting the boy examine him. "Skin's broke; there's a bit o' tab in there. I be goin' first; then I'll pull ye up."

Hugh climbed the rope and swung to the well's rock ledge. He disappeared as Heathcliff waited for what seemed eternity, fearing he'd been abandoned. Then the rope fell from the bright white circle above. Hugh had tied two sturdy loops into it. Heathcliff slipped his foot through the lower and his arm to the shoulder through the upper, afterward reaching upward and grabbing tightly with his left hand. Ready, he yanked on the rope, and Hugh hauled him out of his prison. Once outside, he fell to earth where he lay on his back, staring at the clear, cloud spangled sky. Never had he been so happy to gaze upon that great blue infinity.

"Come along! Ye canna' lag about."

Weak with fatigue, Heathcliff stood to find himself in a low pasture down where the road to the Heights met Gimmerton Road. It was close to the bridge over the beck where Heathcliff was to be baptized that night. Dizzy, he stooped, hands on his knees to steady himself. "I'll only slow you down. You best be on your way; before that git, Hindley, gets here."

"Nay, ye are comin' with me. That tab in yer back 'ill have ye as queer as Dick's hatband before long," said Hugh, holding his hand to Heathcliff's forehead. Pro'bly already does. Ye are burin' up and as green as a frog with gout."

"But Cathy…"

"She canna' go no place."

"Hindley?"

Frowning, Hugh stared at the younger boy. "I'm rattlin' off this cursed gentry cove, and, by the sight of ye, ye ought ta bing along with me."

"I cannot leave with you, but they'll not put an end to me. One day, I swear, Cathy will be my wife, and I'll be the master over them all; come back then."

"Nay, I be done with these swells," said Hugh. "'Tis bound for America I be; they say low borns like me and ye can make a fortune there. Take my advice and let the bonnie-roe buck be."

"You don't understand; I am bound to this place. Without Cathy, I'm nothing. She is my soul; I am her spirit."

Hugh frowned at the younger boy. "Ye sound like a poet speakin' riddles. One last time I warn ye; bing off or ye 'ill be regretin' it."

"I cannot."

"I said me piece; 'tis yer chioce. Now, keep low, it's the hedgerow we be followin'."

Hugh ducked across the pasture with Heathcliff limping behind him. At the hedge they turned right and followed it to a wicket that opened into a just ploughed field. Keeping within the shadow cast by the hedgerow, they skirted the edge of the field, crossing a small stream, and taking a narrow sandy path that lead to an outbuilding where farming implements were stored. Within was a sleeping area occupied by a narrow cot, for in the growing season Hugh made his home in the small shack in order to watch over the fields. By the look of it he'd already moved out of his second story garret.

"Stay here 'til I get back," ordered Hugh.

"Where are you going?"

"For water and soap. Take the cot."

"Will you take a message to Cathy?"

"Maybe."

Heathcliff made to protest, but Hugh had disappeared. Lying down on the cot, he tried to think about what to do next, but he could not focus, instead slipping into slumber. When Hugh returned, it took all Heathcliff's will to awaken.

"Did you find her?" asked Heathcliff.

"Nay. Roll on yer belly," said Hugh.

"Did you try?"

"I did," replied the ploughboy bathing Heathcliff's wound. The younger boy winced as Hugh dug a bit of metal from his shoulder and then applied black drawing salve. It stung severely, but Heathcliff bit his lip; he'd bear any suffering to achieve his goal.

"What happened?"

"The lassie's lattice lay open and I hung 'neath it, gathering pebbles to hurl through the openin'. But that bumfiddle came out the door with his jilt."

"Hindley and Nellie?" asked Heathcliff.

"Who else would I be talkin' about?"

"What happened then?"

"They's arguin' 'bout ye. Ta' young master kicked me and sent me packin'."

"Thanks for trying," frowned Heathcliff.

"I stole some food; help yerself," said Hugh, throwing a bag upon the cot.

Heathcliff 's mouth watered at the sight and scent of Cook's concoctions, and he tucked in, forgetting temporarily his worries. "I owe you twice now, Hugh," he mumbled, his mouth full of meat pie.

"Nay, call us even; ye've saved me double jug more times than I can count."

"No, I owe you. Besides you don't count that well."

"That be true," said Hugh with a sheepish look. He pointed to his ragged shoes from which his toes peaked out. "I'm done, Heathcliff; I been 'round, but I ain't seen the like o' this ken. It makes me sick; I'll be buggerin' off, but I need me some vampires and hopper-dockers for the road."

"If I own those things they're yours," said Heathcliff, with no idea what he was promising.

"How big are yer dew-beaters?" said Hugh, staring at Heathcliff's feet.

"My feet?"

"What else? Stand up. Better take a bead."

Heathcliff stood and Hugh placed one of his 'dew-beaters' beside one of the younger boy's. Heathcliff's foot was at least a big toe longer.

"Look at the size of yer back paws; yer goin' ta be a big one," said Hugh with a whistle. "Maybe ye will beat the crap out of that dimwit one day."

"What are vampires and hopper-dockers? If I have them they're yours."

"Shoes and socks. Did I not teach ye that?" asked Hugh, incredulous at the oversight.

"No, you didn't; nevertheless my vampires and hopper-dockers are yours. I hid them in the oak grove just beyond the upper pasture at the edge of the Heights, close to the Liverpool Road. Do you know it?"

"I do."

"There in the knot hole near the top of the big, old oak in the middle."

"Travelin' t'wil be sweet with me paws covered."

"There's a bag of marbles there too. Take them."

"Nay … I canna'. 'Tis too much."

"I insist."

"Maybe … one."

"Which?"

"The blue and white glass."

"But that's chipped."

"No matter. 'Tis a beauty still."

"It's yours, and any other you fancy. But it's best we separate; so you don't get caught with me. "

"I be makin' my way to the lassie's lattice; I'll try ta' pass a message. Then ta the mistress for me wages."

"I hope we meet again, Hugh. You saved my life."

"Ye'r a damn clinker, ye art, sayin' such. But if ye come ta' yer senses an' make for the new world; ask for Hugh Prunty in New York City. Wait, better ask for Mayor Prunty; I be runnin' the place by then."

"Mayor Prunty it is," said Heathcliff as the two boys touched hands in a secret handshake which will not be revealed here as only those initiated in the art of thieves' cant may have knowledge of such esoterica.

"What'll ye do now?" asked Hugh, gathering some food and his few possessions into a cotton sack.

"Rest until sundown; then I'll try to sneak into the house."

"Be wary, 'tis a gibbous moon."

"I will. Thanks, Hugh," said Heathcliff. The younger boy stared at the earthen floor, his chest tight with the impending loss of Hugh; he fought to hide it.

"Be seein' ye on ta other side," said Hugh, with a wave of his hand.

"On the other side," said Heathcliff, following the ploughboy's progress as he made his way down the sandy path. When he was out of sight, Heathcliff sat upon the cot mourning the loss of his friend.

"I canna' leave ye in such straits. Ye been a good friend," said Hugh. He'd returned so silently that he startled Heathcliff, who flinched at his voice.

"Go," said Heathcliff. "Make your fortune. Afterwards we'll meet again as rich and powerful men."

"Are ye sure?" asked Hugh, his brow creased with uncertainty.

"I am."

"Give 'em hell, Master Heathcliff," said Hugh, walking to Heathcliff and slapping his arm. Heathcliff winced, but stood and returned the hearty blow.

"Mayor Prunty," replied Heathcliff with a bow.

Hugh laughed, grabbing the younger boy, and lifting him in a bear hug. "Take care of your bonnie roe buck. I hope she be worth it."

With that Hugh departed quickly, closing the door silently behind him. Heathcliff peeked through the slats as the older boy ran up the sandy trail toward the main house. He'd miss Hugh, who understood the nature of life at the Heights far better than Cathy. Together the two boys had commiserated, using wit and humor as their weapon against the unfairness and abuse they suffered daily. Hugh was particularly good at making fun of their shared abusers, and the banter always lifted Heathcliff's spirits. Unbidden, tears coursed down the boy's dirty face as the abyss of loneliness once more opened before him.

Kneeling on the cot, Heathcliff wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand; no time for tears. It would be several hours until sunset, and he needed to keep well hidden until then. Soon enough Hindley would realize Heathcliff had escaped from the well and start a search. Hugh's hut seemed an obvious place to look. But there was no way to move about in daylight without notice, so in the darkest corner of the shed, he made a nest with rags Hugh had left behind. Gathering matches, candles, food and water he made ready for the hours of waiting. Then he piled the largest farm implements around him, building a neat barrier. Once inside he realized he'd be trapped if Hindley found him. Thus he dug a hole beneath the enclosure's south facing wall. It abutted a hedge so he might escape unnoticed if it became necessary.

His work done; Heathcliff sat cross-legged upon the rags, keeping watch through the gap in the slats. But as time slowed by the tedium of vigilance, his eyes closed, his head falling to his chest while he dozed, and, though, when he woke, he pinched himself in an attempt to stay alert, he lost the fight as sleep defeated him; the scene shifting subtly.

Heathcliff remained in Hugh's hut, but rather than heavy darkness, light poured through a hole in the roof, and the escape tunnel he'd dug under the building's wooden wall gaped larger, deeper and darker. From within it two golden eyes stared at him. Startled, Heathcliff backed away as the eyes came ever closer; when realty impinged, the child worried over how he'd get away from Hindley, for the creature behind the eyes blocked his escape. Thus he took the only course possible. He took some food from the pouch Hugh had left behind, and held it out.

"Want some of this?" asked Heathcliff. The creature stopped, but its eyes bore into Heathcliff's heart. "What are you?" asked the boy, reasoning by dream logic that the hole opened into the Underworld, and it was a demon he faced.

No verbal answer came, but he could hear loud sniffing as once again the eyes approached. Next a narrow pink tongue reached out of the darkness, licking the boy's fingers. It retreated to be replaced by a long snout filled with sharp teeth which unceremoniously grabbed the morsel.

"Have thee more?" asked the creature from within the dark of the tunnel.

"I have."

"Well, give it here!" demanded the mystery being with a low growl.

"First, who are you?" asked Heathcliff, standing his ground.

"Who wants to know?" replied the haughty animal.

"You first."

"Nay, thee."

"If not your name then what are you?" said Heathcliff, thinking fast.

"Surely thee may hazard a guess."

The boy heard the creature's smart, haughty, smirking tone; then too he'd noticed the sharp teeth, rusty red fur and black whiskers upon the nose. "A fox," concluded the boy.

"Indeed! Well done! I deserve more food for your success."

"By what logic?"

"I believe that is clear."

"Will you come out so we may discuss it?"

"Are thee sure thee wish it?"

"I do."

"Thee will share thy food?"

"I shall."

With an enthusiastic bound, a fluffy, rusty red fox emerged from the darkness. Leaping playfully about, its thick fluffy tail brushed Heathcliff's cheek as it twisted and turned. Finally it came to rest with its chin upon Heathcliff's shoulder, tickling his cheek with its beautiful black whiskers.

"What are you doing?" protested Heathcliff, bringing his hand to his cheek, for though the creature's tail had not injured him, its touch left a strange tingling sensation. "There is no room for such antics."

"Indeed, there is," said the fox, lying down and nuzzling the sack of food.

"Stop that …" But Heathcliff did not finish, for the small space wavered and shifted as it enlarged. "How?"

"Leave that to me."

Heathcliff stared at the incredible creature; as a hunter he'd followed fox trails, but they were an exceeding clever and tricky species. Never had he gotten so close to one that lived. Something about this fox was different - extraordinary even - as he noticed for the first time that she was a vixen. With narrow golden eyes, she stared back, batting her beautiful black eyelashes at him.

"What is in thy sack?" she asked, nudging it with her dainty black paw.

"You have an excellent sense of smell, so you know very well." He tried to seem stern and aloof, but she was irresistible, and he removed a mince pie, feeding it to her. She chewed loudly with apparent delight.

"Mince, ah, cloves. What a divine scent! It is an essential ingredient in the ambrosia of the gods."

"I love cloves too," said Heathcliff before he could stop himself.

"I know. What else have thee got in thy sack?" she asked, slipping her snout into the bag.

"Those are my supplies."

"Supplies?"

"I am in hiding."

The fox stood, circling the child as she took in his scent. After a time she stopped and sat facing him eye to eye in a penetrating golden gaze that mesmerized Heathcliff. He'd never seen such a beautiful animal, and the more he stared the greater her glory. Strange and unfathomable as she was, it seemed to him as if he'd known her forever.

"Here," said the boy, breaking the fascination. He'd decided to give her everything. With much effort, he emptied the seemingly bottomless bag, spreading the food before the fox. Her manners unladylike, she gobbled it all up, and then rolled on her back with a groan. Deeply intrigued by the creature, Heathcliff reached over and gingerly scratched her chin.

"Did thee not care for any of thy supplies?" She said this with sheepish curiosity.

"No," said the child solemnly.

"Oh that is a most serious tone. What ails thee, boy?" The fox rolled over on her tummy and let Heathcliff scratch the area between her ears.

"Nothing." His face went sullen.

"Thee lie. I, fox, am far too clever for thee."

Heathcliff turned his back upon her to hide his tears. Her concern moved him; rarely did anyone, even Mister Earnshaw or Cathy, bother to ask what ailed him, let alone persist with questioning, for they already knew the answer, yet they let the reason go unchecked.

"Hide thee not thy tears of innocence," said the fox, getting to her feet and circling to face him. "Tell me what turns thy face so stormy, and, in return, I shall reveal to you a great secret."

"What secret?"

"My dazzling name."

"You promise?"

"Indeed, I pledge to never lie to thee." This said she licked the tears from his face, and then, circling her tail protectively around him, she settled, resting her chin upon his lap, waiting.

Heathcliff told her of his imprisonment and impending doom, but she did not leave it at that. She wanted his entire lonely life story, and when he was done the two sat in silence.

"Am I a demon?" asked Heathcliff, running his hand over her soft furry coat.

"Thou art no more a demon than I."

"What does that mean?" asked Heathcliff, confused by the ambiguity of her statement.

"These folk you describe would not know a demon if one sat down to share Sunday dinner with them." She rose on her front paws and nuzzled his check.

A vision of an ignorant Joseph passing the potatoes to Mammon as the old man preached to the embodiment of avarice on the dangers of an eternity in hell appeared before Heathcliff, and the boy laughed so hard he rolled upon the earth. His body battered as it was ached with it.

"What ails thee now?" asked the fox. "Why do thee hold thy side?"

Heathcliff tried to answer her, but the vision returned he could not get a word out. She stared at him with her glittering golden eyes, and the bewilderment in her expression added to his hysterics.

"Thank you, fox," he said when he could speak. "I have not laughed in days; it did me good."

"What said I that thee found of a humorous nature?"

Amid fits of giggling, Heathcliff explained.

"Demons are a serious topic; not to be taken lightly. Yet it pleases me to see thee in joyful spirits. Why do thee hold thy side so?"

"It aches from the beating I took."

"Let me see. Move thy forepaw."

Heathcliff raised his arm as the fox crouched down to examine his side.

"These blue marks are not natural?" she inquired.

"No, they are the result of injury."

"Seek no more the high opinion of those you have described to me, for certainly, they are demons." With that conclusion, she commenced licking his side.

"That tickles," said Heathcliff, wiggling away.

"It will heal more quickly for it," she explained, sitting down before him.

"Fox?"

"Speak."

"Are all demons to be feared?"

"Nay, demons are a complex subject few understand. But it is best the ignorant remain ignorant."

"Will you teach me?"

"Perhaps. I shall think on it."

They sat cuddled together in silence for a long while before she spoke again.

"I am called Roo ah Ree," she said finally. "Those I favor, such as thee, may call me Ree."

"That is your given name?"

"It is. We of the fox clan place our surname first."

"My name is Heathcliff. I am a bastard; I have no surname."

"Heathcliff. That is not your true name is it?"

"No." Stricken, Heathcliff watched her. How could she know when he barely remembered? In truth there were times when he became so deeply engrossed in this reality that he forgot his true identity.

"No matter, I shall unravel it. I do enjoy a good puzzle," she said with a superior smirk. But after a moment her brow furrowed as if she pondered deep thoughts. "What is a bastard?"

Heathcliff tried to explain, but Roo ah Ree found the concept passing strange.

"Do thee mean a bastard is not a human child?"

"No, a bastard's father is unknown."

"Yet the child exists; thus a father, though he be incognito, exists."

"Yes, but it's more complicated than that."

"Perhaps the father was caught by dogs or killed by hunters."

Heathcliff sighed; Ree simply could not grasp the nature of legal marriage. Foxes, after all, mate for life in a ritual deeply embedded in nature. They have no need for a preacher's vows; through some numinous mechanism of recognition their relationship is intrinsically monogamous.

Ree got to her feet and sniffed the air. "I must away; thee must awake."

Heathcliff looked bereft, and Ree, as if to comfort him circled his body with her silky red-rusty tail.

"Fear not; thee have a surname, though it be lost to thee. That is thy fate and, though thee be but a child, thee must accept this bitter herb. But, this too is thy fate; here, now, I, Roo ah Ree, pledge my allegiance to thee. With this bond, thee shall never be alone again, for I will come whenever thee call. Now, thee are fox, as well," said the vixen, who seemed grow and gleam like the stars in heaven as she said this. "Do thee accept this boon?"

"I do accept, Roo ah Ree," said the boy, awestruck as he wrapped his arms around her neck and hugged her. In turn she rest her head upon his shoulder and nudged him.

"Now you must awake for square noggin' is upon us. Remember! Thee are fox clan; seek not again a demon's aid. Speed, stealth and cunning be your guide; you will survive."

At this Heathcliff awoke to find Hindley and Ellen towering over him. Quickly, he got to his knees and squirmed through the tunnel he'd constructed under the hut's wall, but Hindley grabbed his foot, yanking him back. Heathcliff fought with all his might, but Hindley, at seventeen, was almost full grown, and Heathcliff, tall though he was for nine, did not have the strength to withstand him. It was as Roo ah Ree had said. He must use stealth and cunning; raw strength would not suffice.

"Come along, your presence is required at tea," smirked the older boy, as he dragged Heathcliff to the center of the hut. "After all, you are the main course."


	12. Cathy Confined

**Chapter 12**:** Baby Birds and the Consequences of Cruelty  
Part Five: Cathy Confined  
**By Ivy Rangee

**Cathy**

In a daring, yet carefully executed escape, Catherine Earnshaw tiptoed from her wardrobe bed, stealing silently over the creaky, ancient boards that lined her bedroom floor. Heathcliff had perfected the technique, patiently showing her its ins and outs so that they might steal away undetected for secret midnight forays upon the moor. Arriving safely at her bedroom door, she carefully lifted the latch, slipping quietly out and then down the hall to the dusty back stairwell. Though still early June, the day was sultry and in response she had stripped off her heavy dress, an act of daring rebellion. Now, she wore only a light, pale yellow pinafore over her frilly cotton slip and knickers. Sweat beaded upon her forehead, and it seemed to her that her tight braids held close the stifling air. Thus she ripped the wilted green satin ribbons from her hair, freeing it to cascade to her waist. Shivering with relief, she furtively surveyed the corridor; her intent, to rescue Heathcliff and then make for the hidden cave, required both cunning and stealth: cunning for she knew not where her mother held him captive and stealth because she must avoid detection at all costs, since her mother had ordered her confined to her bed. In this house built on jealousy and its first cousin treachery, Cathy could trust no one.

Her small bare feet had just touched the top of the back stairway when she heard Cook and Elsie, the maidservant, gossiping in the kitchen below. Hoping to get a clue to Heathcliff's whereabouts, she made herself small, listening attentively.

"Ta' master's goin' ta throw a fit when 'e gits back," grumbled Cook.

"But curate says the boy's possessed," replied Elsie.

"Nay, I do na' believe it. I ha' watched the bairn close like. Thee mus' recall how I did fear him when first he came. That he be dark and strange I give thee. But possessed? Nay! 'Tis curate what's touched."

"Hush, thee will be bringin' down the wrath o' the Lord," whispered Elsie.

"I fear for the bairn's life," said Cook, her voice so low Cathy could barely hear it. "I pray the master be back 'fore nightfall."

"Aye, and like as not the blame 'twill fall upon one of us," complained Elsie. "For doin' nothin'."

"Nay, Elsie, 'tis steps I ha' takin'. I can na be party to starvin' no bairn even be he a demon."

"Oh, lor', what ha' thee gone and done?" asked Elsie, though she whispered, her tone was vehement.

"I sent Hugh with victuals and drink."

"But how?"

"Lowered a bucket."

"Lor', oh lor', oh lordy me, thee art beggin' for trouble."

"I canna face me master or me Maker have'n' let a bairn die o' hunger on my watch. 'Tis devilish how the mistress do torment that child. 'Twill come back upon this house."

"'Tis not ours to question gentry-cove. Thee risk a sackin."

"Suffer the litt'l children, Elsie," said Cook. "Suffer the litt'l children. Thy Lord's words."

"Sufferin' Jesus, thee art makin' me feel sorry for that whelp ag'in. No good will come o' it. Lor' bless thee; thee must tread careful as if upon eggs. Master Hindley and Nellie Dean do creep about in the wee hours."

"Why?"

"'Tis then they vex the bairn. Hugh canna' sleep for it," explained Elsie.

"'Tis evil and evil will come o' it," growled Cook.

"But they say the bairn t'ain't human."

"Would thee treat a dog such?" demanded Cook, with a sigh of frustration.

"Nay." Cathy could barely hear Elsie's whispered reply. In silence, she applauded Cook. The clever woman had used the maidservant's well known love of animals to make her point.

"At what hour do they creep?" asked Cook.

"'Tis just after the mistress retires. Lor', I pray thee know what thee do."

"Nay, I do not, but do it I must."

"But what if we get a sackin?" asked Elsie.

"'Tis better a sackin' than a season in Hell." said Cook. "'Sides the master'll take us back."

"'Tis so?"

"'Tis. Who else t'would do his biddin' in this forsaken madhouse?"

"'Tis a good question thee raise," laughed Elsie.

"'Tis, indeed," giggled Cook.

Though she risked punishment, Cathy continued to eavesdrop, but the two servants refused to cooperate, working in silence. The lull increased her anxiety to a fever pitch, as the wild beating of her heart turned her pale skin scarlet, for in the quiet she felt Heathcliff's suffering as if it were her own. Tears coursed down her burning cheeks, and she shivered as she felt pulled beneath the wheel of his strange fate. Why would it be necessary to lower food to him in a bucket? Where could he possibly be? She brought her quaking hand to her face, wiping away her tears. She must not succumb to a fit; she must keep her head. With any luck, the two servants would either continue their gab fest or finish their work and leave the kitchen. She must find Hugh. Heathcliff needed rescuing; that was clear. This time she would not fail him, for she owed him more than she could ever repay. But there was another, deeper reason; in his absence she'd come to realize that she loved him as much as she needed him. His presence was vital to her happiness. Standing, she carefully made her way down to the landing to see if Elsie and Cook were close to finishing their work.

"This day be steamin' hot," complained Elsie, who mixed dough in a large, clay bowl. She stopped and drew her wrist across her forehead. "Is a storm comin'?"

"Were the wolf cub about, he'd tell us," replied Cook as she chopped something Cathy could not see. They seemed to be preparing a large meal.

"Surin' he would," replied Elsie with enthusiasm. "That bairn's uncanny true when storm per'dictin'."

"Sometimes I wonder if he ain't made it happen."

"Thee had better quit such loose talk," whispered Elsie. Cathy held her breath so she might hear. "'Tis bad 'nough he 'nos'icates closer 'en the almanac."

"Prog-nos-ti-cate! Art thee i'nor'ant? But 'tis true 'nough. Best I shut my gob."

Again they worked quietly side by side as Cathy lay on the landing, watching them through the spindles of the balustrade. Her impatience grew more intense with every silent second. When would they get their damn work done so she could find her way out of the house? At the very least they could talk more of Heathcliff.

"'Tis wonderin'; I be," said Elsie after a little while. The housemaid mixed cinnamon and clove into the dough, and with the spicy scent came memories of Heathcliff. He loved the smell of clove, and he often stole a few from the kitchen to carry in his pocket. This was forbidden, of course, cloves being precious expensive. But he loved them so much, it never mattered to him that he might get a whipping should he be caught.

"'Bout?" asked Cook.

"The wolf bairn got water enough?"

"Did I not jus' say so?"

"But Hugh might o' shined on such a dauntin' task."

"Nay, bribe him I did with extra rations. 'Sides, them boys be littermates."

"Then thee art sure the whelp got water?" asked Elsie once again. She had stopped working, instead gazing intently at the back of Cook's head.

"I am."

"How?"

Cook sighed and turned to face the inquisitive maid. "Hugh come back terr'ble scared, his pale skin paler than pale, his big round eyes bigger and rounder. He says he be quitin' this very day."

"Nay, thee say," replied Elsie. "Why was he on so?"

But Cook's story was cut short, as Missus Earnshaw burst into the kitchen.

"Have you seen Miss Catherine?" said the mistress, her voice low and dry as she lapsed into a bout of fierce coughing.

"I ha' na, Mistress," said Elsie with a curtsy.

"And you, Cook?" asked Missus Earnshaw, so pale and thin she looked like an angry, avenging ghost.

"Nay, Mistress," declared Cook with a saucy nod of her head.

Worrisome as this last bit of information was Cathy had no time to dwell on it. Jumping to her feet, she ran up the stairs and down the back hall, racing for her bed. Entering her room, she latched the door behind her as her mother's footfalls grew closer. With no time for stealth, she crossed the floor to her wardrobe bed in two prodigious leaps. Pulling the door closed behind her, she settled her elbow on the lattice sill resting her chin in her hand, attempting to appear bored while staring pensively out at the moor. This took great effort given what Cook had revealed about Hugh, but Cathy believed it imperative she appear ignorant of Heathcliff's dire circumstances. Anything else would give her away. She took a deep breath as she heard the door latch clack and her mother enter the room.

"Do not pretend that you have been sitting about in bed. You are to stay in there, Catherine," whispered Missus Earnshaw, her voice raspy. Cathy heard her shuffle across the room after which the woman threw open the wardrobe bed door to glare at her daughter with glassy, ill eyes. "Your bright red cheeks betray your lies. If I catch you out of this bed again, you will get a whipping."

"What have you done to Heathcliff?" said Cathy. Unable to control herself the child jumped to her feet. With best menacing frown she could muster, she glared at her mother.

"Do not look at me in that manner, Catherine! You will damage your face. It might freeze that way and then no respectable man will want you."

"Then I shall be the image of you, old witch. Again, I ask, where is he? What have you done?"

"Do not speak of it. How your father could give him the name of one of our own babes, I shall neither comprehend nor forgive." Her mother never spoke above a murmur anymore for whenever she did she was brought low by a painful fit of coughing. "And where is your dress? Put it on this minute; a young lady does not parade about half naked."

"It was I who chose the name, Heathcliff, and it fits him so well," said Cathy, fingering the vial of medicine Missus Hull had prepared. Well hidden in her pinafore pocket, Cathy smirked with her secret power. The old banshee could cough herself to death before Cathy would turn over the medicine for at this moment she hated her mother and wanted nothing more than to cause her pain.

"How could you, Catherine? Heathcliff…your real brother … is an angel in heaven now."

"He must have been renamed Michael or Raphael. Have you ever heard of an angel called Heathcliffael?"

"Catherine, where do you get such daft ideas?" asked Missus Earnshaw, shaking her head and lowering herself slowly into the high backed chair that stood beside the bed.

"At church. Curate says all the angels are named such – with el at the end. You can't be an angel otherwise."

"Do you suppose we are all renamed in Heaven?" asked her mother, gazing out the window, her expression profoundly weary.

"Indeed. Now…where is Heathcliff, Mother? Give him back to me."

"What did I just say?"

"I said tell me!" shouted the infuriated little girl.

"No, Catherine. And do not speak to me in that tone."

"Where is he? Tell me this minute!"

"You are the most disobedient girl!" said Missus Earnshaw, standing to slap Cathy's face. The blow carried little force.

"I hate you, Mother! Tell me where he is. Now!" screamed Cathy, beside herself. "What have you done to him?"

"Be silent!" the mistress of the Heights whispered, her voice weak and quavering. Still she managed to grab Cathy's hair, dragging her from the bed and shaking her, though the exertion had little effect on her daughter.

"If you harm him, my hate for you will grow endlessly and endure for all eternity," proclaimed Cathy with the solemnity of a witch casting a spell. "And, when you die, I shall dance upon your grave and laugh with Heathcliff at my side."

"You do not know what you say, girl," sighed the woman, out of breath. "Now, get in your bed or I will have Ellen beat you; I do not have the energy to argue with you. Of all the children I bore, why did only the most foul survive?" Missus Earnshaw added in a whisper.

"Because you are foul. Why else?" shouted Cathy, stomping her foot. "No decent spirit would remain at your breast."

"Catherine, you are a child. You do not understand so I forgive you. Promise me you will never forget that," said Missus Earnshaw. Cathy saw her words had drawn blood as the woman's eyes filled with tears. "That boy is not human; he's some gypsy's bastard. The curate has found him to be soulless. He is like a dog or a horse, yet you treat him like family. Believe me or not, I only want what is best for you," pleaded her mother.

"If Heathcliff does not have a soul then I give mine up freely," replied the merciless girl. "I don't want to be where Heathcliff isn't." The child frowned, folding her arms in defiance.

"You must not speak such blasphemy! You tempt fate," murmured Misses Earnshaw, holding her handkerchief to her forehead. "All of this is the result of your father's laxness - letting you run wild with that…that creature."

"Where is he, Mother?" demanded the relentless Catherine.

"Ellen Dean," cried Mrs. Earnshaw, collapsing back into the chair; her hands shook as she rubbed her chest and fell into a coughing fit. "Come here, Ellen Dean," she tried again, but her voice was barely audible.

Unable to bear the sight, Cathy climbed into her wardrobe bed, slamming the door shut.

"Say your prayers and go to sleep," whispered her mother. "You are not to leave this room until I give you permission. Your meals will be brought to you."

"When Papa gets back you will pay dearly for what you've done to Heathcliff," shouted Cathy from within the paneled bed. But her voice caught as she smeared silent tears of pity over her fevered cheeks, at the same time admonishing herself that she could not allow forbearance to infect her hatred.

"I already pay dearly, child," said her mother, in a small voice. "It will make little difference."

Having rekindled her rancor, Cathy listened as her mother exited the room, and then shoved open the lattice, leaning out to stare angrily into the twilight. She would say her prayers when bloody hell froze over. Besides, soulless people need not pray; that was one of the perks.

Resting her chin on her folded arms, she forgot her mother and fell into fretting over Heathcliff. Beads of sweat gathered on her brow as she clenched her small hands into tight little fists and surveyed the moor, searching for a hint as to his whereabouts. Coiled taut like an over wound spring, she failed to breathe, and after a few moments gasped, inhaling deeply the sweet scent of infant greening things that floated upon warm, sultry evening air. In the distance the huge June moon breached the horizon as field hands sang an ancient hymn of praise to its beneficent pale light. She wished with all her heart that Heathcliff was beside her so she might be free to enjoy the beauty of this moment. His absence stretched her thin, rendering her almost transparent like an empty ghost, hungering for that which can never be. She'd failed him once again, and in her shame she cried.

When her tears abated, Cathy fell into a light sleep, but woke when her head rolled to the side. Pinching herself, she got to her feet and jumped on the bed; above all she needed to stay awake. Only she could save Heathcliff; she would watch for Hindley and Nellie and then follow them. However, though her determination was strong, two sleepless nights fretting over Heathcliff had taken their toll. An insidious, nauseating weariness fell upon the child, forcing her to lie down. She promised herself it would be a short nap, but the moment her head touched her pillow deep sleep overcame her.

Cathy dreamed she flew above the moor in search of Heathcliff, but no matter where she looked she could not find him. Panic took hold of her as she went to their usual meeting places only to find all traces of him erased. All his things, even the gifts he'd made for her had vanished. The loss of everything Heathcliff tore away all she held in her heart, leaving an emptiness deep and frightening. With every ounce of strength she could muster, she screamed his name only to find that sound failed to travel in this alien dimension. Over and over, she opened her mouth and shouted, but all that came was a barely discernible whisper as useless as a light breeze on a sweltering summer night. Falling from the sky, she dropped to her knees, clutching her heart which ached so intensely that she believed death immanent, and she prepared herself for her inevitable descent into the hell realm. But just as she thought the end nigh, out of the darkness loped a luminous creature. Puzzled, she wondered how the thing could run on thin air. As it drew closer, Cathy grew excited for she saw a sleek red furred fox with silky black legs and paws. The vixen came close and stared into the girl's eyes, and Cathy, thrilled at meeting such an elusive animal, held its gaze.

"I hope thee art worthy of him, human," the vixen murmured.

"Worthy of who?"

"Show me that thee art! Wake, this instant," said the fox. "The one for whom thee weep needs not thy tears but thy deeds." With that said, the fox leaped into the air, twisting back toward the darkness. Watching intently, Cathy brought her hand to her burning cheek for the vixen's tail had brushed it. The touch of the fox's flaming red tail tingled with a strange heat, and Cathy shivered.

"Do you speak of Heathcliff?" asked Cathy. "Please, Mistress Fox, tell me where I might find him?

By this time, the fox had trotted halfway to infinity; nevertheless, she turned her head, staring back over her shoulder. "Wake, girl, or you will never know. It will be too late." With a haughty flick of her tail, the fox turned away to continue on her journey.

"Too late? Shall we both then enter Hell this night?" shouted Cathy.

The fox tossed her elegant red head. "Hell is not for thee or he. It is a stranger fate awaits thee. Tell the boy Roo ah ree bestirred thee."

"Roo ah ree, I shall not forget," whispered Cathy as she awoke from nightmare turned prophecy. Slowly opening her eyes, she spread her arms, letting the refreshing breath of the north wind wash over her. With it came the heavy scent of rain followed by a distant growl of thunder. Bemused by the vivid dream images she drifted until the sound of heavy raindrops striking the open lattice brought her fully back into the waking world and the urgency of her task. Terrified that she'd missed Hindley and Ellen, she sat up so quickly dizziness overwhelmed her as brilliant circles of color floated at the periphery of her vision. Forcing herself to her knees, she poked her head out the window. Though heavy clouds had brought on an early night, she felt no rain, and touching the lattice, she found it dry. Confounded she withdrew to her wardrobe bed where she concluded the sound must have been part of her dream. But just as she named it an illusion she heard the tap, tap, tap of raindrops once more, and she leaned out the window to investigate.

Beneath her stood Hugh, the ploughboy; his left hand cupped a pyramid of pebbles. He fingered through them carefully choosing several and then, looking up toward her bedroom, he raised his hand to hurl them at the open lattice.

"Hugh Prunty," Cathy called down in a low voice.

"Miss Cat'erine, 'tis 'bout time. What ha' ye been 'bout? " demanded the ploughboy.

"Do you have a message from Heathcliff?"

"Aye, I do. I planted 'im in me plough shed. He says he be comin' for ye at slop time."

"Is he hurt?"

"Yer bumfiddle, shabbaroon of a brother and that squint-eyed tart o' his did him up bad," growled Hugh, throwing the rest of the pebbles at the fence. "He be half-clamed when I found him. But Master Heathcliff's an out-and-outer."

"Out-and outer? That's good, right, Hugh?" Cathy leaned further out the window hoping only Hugh would hear her words.

"Course. He be a staunch cove – as wily as a fox. I trust him wiff me life."

"Will you help him, Hugh?" pleaded the young girl whose hair flew around her as gust of wind sent the trees waving.

"I patched him best I know, Miss Cat'erine," replied the boy, pushing his blond hair from his face. "'Tis up to ye now."

"But I need your help. I've a good plan; you'll like it."

"Nay, not me," said Hugh, waving his hands. "I be bingin' off. Storm's comin. I be makin' for the Dragon's Knight for it lights."

"It's true then; you're really leaving?"

"For America."

"No, Hugh, please don't go."

"'Fore I bolt, there be more to Master Heathcliff's message," said the boy, his face going scarlet. "He say ye be a right rum-mort."

"Rum-mort?" asked Cathy, trying to recall the meaning. "That's a beautiful lady, right?"

"'Tis," said Hugh. He hesitated and then, blushing an even deeper shade of red, he added, "He say ye be his dearest nug, purest-pure."

"Dearest nug, purest-pure? Were those his exact words?" Cathy knew what this meant. It was a confession of love.

"Nay, he be too plain spoke. I spiced it up right sweet for ye; 'tis wha' he meant." Hugh stared at the ground, scuffing his shoe in the dust. From Cathy's vantage point his footwear looked exactly like Heathcliff's.

"You are a poet, Hugh. Life will be very dull without you."

"'Tis time I make me stand 'fore I wake up some square-toed needy-mizzler."

"You'll never be anything but a bang-up bene-cove to me. I shall miss you."

"Thank 'ee Miss Cath'rine. Ye art a mighty fine rum-duchess."

"Wait a moment," said Cathy, wanting to give him a last gift so he might remember her. She searched her wardrobe bed for something he'd like. Books were out of the question; he couldn't read. But he did love the stories that the three of them had acted out. In one he'd played a knight who'd received her favor in the form of a green silk scarf, which now hung above the lattice, draped like a curtain.

"Sir, knight," she called out, taking down the scarf.

"Your ladyship," replied Hugh, his cap in hand as he went down on one knee.

"Please don't forget me." She said this as she hung out the window, dropping the scarf which floated slowly to the ground buffeted as it was by the pre-storm wind.

Hugh laughed, and, jumping to his feet he chased it, managing to catch the soft green cloth before it touched the earth. Afterward he returned to where he'd stood beneath the open lattice, the scarf wrapped around his neck. "Never, m'lady," he said, bowing with a flourish.

"And, Hugh, if you see my papa on the Liverpool Road, tell him he must hurry home."

"I'll tell 'em." With that he waved his hat all the while bestowing one of his radiant smiles upon her. Then he spun and ran for the fence. Leaping to the top rail, he hesitated for a long moment before dropping to the road. He did not turn back as she hoped he would, but instead took off at a dead run.

With a philosophical sigh, Cathy watched Hugh disappear over a hill; very few had the grit necessary to remain at the Heights for very long. So, though she took goodbyes to be the way of things, Hugh Prunty's departure grieved her. But she had not the time to mourn his loss now. Dinnertime must be near or even passed; she had to be ready to run when Heathcliff came for her. Opening the door of her wardrobe bed, she found a tray of food on the chair beside it. At the sight of it, she broke her two day fast, gobbling the cheese and bread and then taking up a small bowl of pudding which, though it had gone cold, still smelled like heaven. The thick sticky mixture looked so delicious; she stuck her fingers into the goo, afterward licking them clean. This had been an unfortunate habit of Heathcliff's when he first arrived at the Heights, and her mother despised it. She had just polished off the last of dinner when she heard the muffled voices of Hindley and Nellie from the downstairs sitting room and, though she could not decipher the meaning of what they said, one word stood out, clear as a clarion – Heathcliff. She had no choice but to investigate.


	13. The Law of Enantiodromia

**Chapter 13**: **Baby Birds and the Consequences of Cruelty**

**Part Six: The Law of ****Enantiodromia**

By Ivy Darcourt

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Cathy tiptoed silently across her bedroom. Opening the door, she listened. From the sitting room drifted voices, and they spoke Heathcliff's name. Intent on investigating, she quietly latched the door behind her, and made her way to the narrow balcony that overlooked the sitting room. Once there, she lay on her belly and slithered to the balustrade where she hid, peeking between the spindles as below an inquisition took place.

"Why must you bring that out now?" demanded Nellie Dean, standing in the shadow cast by the cupboard. Cathy could just make out the maid as she cleared a great many dishes from the dinner table, placing them on a large tray. "The time is highly inappropriate."

"And why not?" laughed Hindley, kneeling to pull several bricks from the hearth. He retrieved a ragged red leather bound volume from beneath them. "You could have written this tome; you're so clever." He threw himself into Mister Earnshaw's favorite armchair and thumbed through the well worn pages, occasionally drinking from an unusually large goblet.

"Your mother and the curate will be back within the hour, expecting tea and dessert to be set out. Imagine the scene that would ensue should she to find you drooling over that. And you insult me; if I were to write a book it would in no way resemble _The Crafty Chambermaid's Garland. _It would be poetic, artful and deep._" _With an air of haughty superiority, Nellie bustled about gathering up the rest of the dishes. When the table was cleared she picked up the tray, placing it on the long bench seat.

"You know this book could be your biography." Watching Nellie, Hindley ran his thumb up and down the spine. "Are you sure you've never met the author?" Cathy could clearly make out the smirk on Hindley's face, though, truth be told, she had no idea what the two adolescents were going on about. Nevertheless, knowledge of this forbidden book and its hiding place would no doubt prove invaluable.

"In no way do the events in that volume resemble my life!" grumbled Nellie, vigorously wiping the table with a damp cloth.

"You do not fool me, Nellie Dean. You desire a similar fate as Bexelinda, this fictional maid – to rise above your station via marriage with the master's son. You already act like you own the place. If anyone could maneuver such an unlikely outcome, it's you."

"You, Master Hindley, are a drunk and a cad." Nellie threw the damp, cleaning cloth directly at his face where it rested for a moment before falling into his lap. Cathy stifled a giggle.

"Wait, except for my name that is a direct quote from the book," said Hindley, jumping to his feet. He took hold of the towel at diagonal corners, twirling it into a long narrow strip and then whipping it at Nellie's butt. It hit its rather large target with a prodigious thwak.

"Ow," yelped Nellie, glaring at Hindley, who now stood beside her preparing the towel for a second foray. She grabbed it, hiding it behind her back as he tried to reach for it. "I shall report your poor behavior to your father when he returns."

Eyeing her with a mischievous smirk, Hindley advanced on her, pressing her against the cupboard. "On my, how I do tremble at the very thought, but then I shall have to tell Papa what you have been up to. Thus blackmail will never work on me."

"I have done nothing you can report without incriminating yourself," said Nellie, slipping away from him, and crossing to the opposite side of the table.

"My point exactly. You know, dear Nellie, you are the most self-centered and cunningly domineering person I have ever met," said Hindley, following her. "You are like the tragic young heroine in that other book we read. You must remember; the jealous older sister who tricked her poor, trusting, innocent younger siblings into constant error, and then tattled on them so that she might seem morally superior. What was it called? _Griselda Grimsley's Melancholy Treasons?_"

"I shall not listen to such slander. Why, Miss Charlotte proclaimed me the moral center of this madhouse."

Hindley doubled up laughing. "You? The moral center? You think only of your own welfare; you're exactly like the crafty chambermaid. If you are the moral center than we're all bound for Hell. But perhaps that's what Miss Charlotte meant."

"You think you are better than me, but it the reverse. Miss Charlotte has said so."

"You are my social inferior; in all other ways we are equally depraved. Drop that prig; she's much too severe. I want my sweet, conniving Nellie. Remember what fun we've always had?" Hindley walked to fireplace; he stood behind Mister Earnshaw's chair, leaning against the pillar.

"I have my reasons for befriending her; and you, Sir, have gone too far. Now leave me be. I must set out tea and dessert before your mother's return. I will not be sacked again."

"Take _it_ with you. But first get the candle; let's burn _it_," said Hindley as he reached behind the chair and pulled Heathcliff upright. With his booted foot he pushed the boy toward Nellie. "I want to know how it got free."

Cathy brought her small fist to her mouth and bit it in order to stifle a scream, something she'd learned from Heathcliff. Filthy and bruised, her dear friend stood with his hands bound before him. Nothing Hugh had said prepared her for the sight. Naked except for his britches, Heathcliff's hair fell in greasy strings over his grimy, grim face. Hindley mimicked the child's expression as he grabbed for the hearth broom with which he prodded Heathcliff's back repeatedly; the younger boy ignored the teasing. The unresponsiveness of his victim drove Hindley's rage, and he kicked the boy so hard that Heathcliff was lifted off his feet and fell, sprawling upon the polished rock floor.

Infuriated, Hindley yanked Heathcliff back to his feet as Nellie Dean emerged from the shadows of the cupboard with a lit candle. Slowly, she dripped hot wax on Heathcliff's shoulder. He flinched, but he did not cry out. Cathy swore a silent curse upon the maid and then mentally disowned Hindley.

"We have been at this for days," said Nellie. "He will never yield."

"_It _is not capable of yielding, Nellie, due to its dull insensibility. Did you not hear my mother's cousin's words? Eventually I will find where its sensitive spots lie, and then it will weep and moan, begging me, its master, for mercy. Won't I, scum?" said Hindley, kicking Heathcliff to the floor, again. "After that perhaps, if I am satiated, I will consider granting it mercy."

"You are wrong; he hides his pain to spite you. I'm tired of hurting him. He bores me."

"It is not a he; it is an it!" shouted Hindley. "Must I beat you too?"

"Come near me and I will hit you so hard it will dent that ugly square head of yours," growled Nellie. She'd picked up a large pewter pitcher which she held high, ready to strike.

Hindley and the angry maid glared at each other, but after a few moments Hindley slouched, his expression softening. "Now, now, Nellie, put that down. Come and give your sweet Hindley a kiss to show all is forgiven."

"Nay, Master Hindley, I've had enough of you." Nellie turned her back on him.

"Do you not love me anymore?" asked Hindley, grabbing Heathcliff by the hair and yanking him to his feet.

"Love you?" she gasped, lowering the pitcher. "How can I, when you betray me to my face? I saw you flirting with the ladies at Gimmerton Fair. Do you think me a slave to your attentions? "

"I am to be master of the Heights, Nellie, it is only appropriate I show off before the daughters of the local gentry. You are only a maidservant, but, that said, you are diabolically clever and far more interesting." Hindley stood and walked around Heathcliff, grabbing the boy's ear and twisting. "Hold him while beat him."

"I have no time. As you have so observantly pointed out I am only a servant, and thus I have evening duties to attend to. Besides you have beaten and poked every inch of him to no avail."

"I told you to call the thing _it_," growled Hindley, grabbing her chin.

"Let me go!" Nellie kicked him, but Cathy could not see where.

"But, Nellie, you hate it too," Hindley whined, hopping around on one leg while holding the other. "You said it needs punishing."

"It does need punishing, as does Miss Catherine. And I do hate it, Hindley, but there is a limit to how long I can exercise such vigorous rancor. All this has grown dull; besides there are far subtler and more painful ways to exact punishment though anything less than direct action would probably be lost on you."

Nellie crossed the room toward the kitchen with Hindley following her like a faithful dog. Once they were under the second floor hallway overhang Cathy could no longer see them likewise she was invisible to them. Seizing this opportunity, she got to her feet, waving her hands frantically so she might grab Heathcliff's attention. However her effort was unnecessary, for he stared at the place where she stood as if he'd been waiting for her to appear. He brought his fingers to his lips, signaling her to be quiet.

"Did you hear something?" asked Hindley. Cathy froze. All that could be heard was the rustling of Nellie's petticoats.

"Just you rattling about. Stop that, Hindley, I have work to do," came Nellie's rebuke followed by a loud slap.

"Will you come to my room later?" asked Hindley, obviously undeterred. The sound of rustling petticoats resumed.

"Not tonight, you have insulted me; I prefer to keep my own company in my own room." Nellie sounded positively pouty.

"Your room?" growled Hindley. You sleep where you sleep at my whim."

"Your father's whim!" Nellie reminded him, her voice filled with distain. "Do you have any idea how strange you Earnshaws are?"

"What do you mean by that? Be careful how you answer."

"Maidservants in other houses do not share an adjoining room with the master's son as a matter of course. Neither do street urchins sleep in the same bed as the master's daughter."

"We follow the old ways."

"But the old ways are no longer proper."

"How would you know?"

"I have my ways."

"It matters not; our case is different. You and I have been intimate since infancy; you are my milk-sibling."

"Aye, is that how you call it?"

They both laughed, and then Hindley murmured something Cathy could not hear. While Nellie and Hindley whispered and giggled, Cathy watched Heathcliff. He could see the two, whereas she remained blind to their doings. Whatever they were about, Heathcliff visibly relaxed, twisting his arms so he might reach into the pocket of his britches. With great effort he pulled forth a small knife, which he brought it to his mouth, removing its sheath with his teeth. She recognized it immediately as Hugh's. Heathcliff flipped it deftly so that it touched the rope that bound his wrists. Within minutes he cut himself free, though she could see he had nicked his wrist in the process.

Heathcliff let the ropes fall, re-sheathed the knife and hung it about his neck, afterward picking up a used napkin and tying around his wrist. That done, he made for a narrow panel beside the fire place, carefully prying it open. Turning back to Cathy, he pointed toward the back hallway, signaling her to meet him there. She did not need this cue for she already knew his plan. She just hoped he was still small enough to make it up the narrow hidden stairway behind the panel. It led to the second story garrets, and, when they were younger and smaller, they'd played in it. Few adults could fit through the narrow passage, and much as she and Heathcliff had inquired no one remembered its original use. In light of this mystery, Cathy had christened it Queen Mab's Way. Heathcliff slithered through the opening, closing it silently behind him. But as Cathy made to meet him, the floor of the narrow balcony creaked, forcing her to halt.

"What was that?" said Hindley.

"What is wrong with you?" asked Nellie. "You seem on edge tonight; it is probably nothing but the wind. Or perhaps it's ghosts?"

"Ghosts?" he whimpered.

"Yes, Hindley, you idiot. It must be ghosts."

"You laugh but they do walk the moor on nights such as this; I have seen their light."

"More likely it is your mother and her company. I must finish my work, and I believe it would be wise to clean _it_ up," came Nellie's voice, soft and caressing. As she spoke Cathy lay down on her belly, listening. "Otherwise your mother will fly up when she sees what you have done."

"Why would you say that? Mother said it must be severely punished to drive out the demon."

"You have gone too far and sullied yourself. She will see that. He's a mess. You came close to killing him."

"So what? Everyone wants to be rid of it."

"No, you moron, not all! He's your father's pet. And Miss Catherine dotes on him."

"The old man's gone dotty, and Catherine's a stupid child," pouted Hindley. "Everyone else fears and despises it."

"You are an idiot. Already I have seen the kitchen servants showing him mercy. And Hugh the ploughboy probably set him free; no doubt that is why he gave notice. It is a natural law: anything pushed too far turns into its opposite. "

"I have not heard of such a law."

"It is in one of your father's books on science – the Law of Enantiodromia."

"You are so smart, my Nellie. What would I do without you?"

"You would flounder. Will the test be tonight?"

"Why do you think my cousin is here?"

"Fools!" laughed Nellie. "They're terrified of a boy."

"It is not a boy; it is a demon."

"This test reeks of ignorance."

"You may not speak of your betters that way."

"It is just an excuse, a way for your mother to get rid of him before …"

"Before what?"

"Are you stupid, Hindley? Look at the poor woman; can you not see how ill she is? She wishes to leave you without a rival, and Cathy free of her demon playmate. It is her last act of motherly love."

"You lie; she will outlive me! Take it and get out of my sight!"

Cathy knelt; her mother was dying. Why hadn't she seen it? Her cruel words and refusal to give her mother the draught came to mind, and Cathy regretted her meanness. But her remorse quickly dissolved, her mother's approaching death did not give her the right to harm Heathcliff. The two ends were different: her mother's death would be the result of illness, but Heathcliff's death would be murder. How could her mother commit such a heinous act so close to the end? Cathy would not allow it, and the benefit would be twofold: Heathcliff would survive, and she would save her mother from committing a terrible sin.

Nellie reappeared, walking briskly to where Heathcliff had been. She turned back toward Hindley. "He's gone."

"Bloody hell," shouted Hindley. "Find it!" He followed Nellie and the two commenced a wild search for the boy, even looking in the cupboard.

Fortunately for Cathy, in their panic, neither Hindley nor Nellie noticed her bolt down the upstairs hall. When she reached the kitchen stairway Heathcliff was nowhere to be found, so she climbed the dusty steps to the second story garrets. There she headed along a narrow corridor of raw unvarnished wood. At the halfway point an even narrower side hall intersected, and she took this to a linen storage cabinet within which lay the well hidden exit of Queen Mab's Way. Opening the slim door, she found Heathcliff leaning against the wall, holding his wrist, his breath coming in quick, short huffs.

"Cathy."

His appearance was almost more than she could endure, and hot tears filled her eyes. "Heathcliff," she whispered, hugging him.

"I missed you," said the boy, returning her embrace.

"What have they done to you?"

Heathcliff did not answer.

"I'm done with them, Heathcliff."

"I'm just done," whispered Heathcliff.

"You look so pale," said Cathy, running her hand over his forehead.

"My wrist - it's bleeding."

"Have no fear; I shall look after you."

This pronouncement brought a smile to Heathcliff's lips. "You?" he asked with more than a hint of skepticism.

"I've watched the apothecary. I shall apply pressure just like he does." Cathy stood and took a pillow casing, ripping it into strips.

"It's going to need more than pressure."

"I must have a look. Take off the napkin."

"Promise me you will not faint? I can barely manage myself let alone you."

"Please do not say the word faint. Just the sound of it makes me lightheaded," declared Cathy. "Wait, I need fortification." She took Missus Hull's draught from her pocket and lifted it to her lips. "Do you want some?"

"Yes," said Heathcliff, grabbing the bottle and taking a swig.

Cathy examined his wrist; in cutting the rope Heathcliff had managed to make a short but deep gash into his wrist. Medicine was not her forte. She closed her eyes for a moment, and, thinking of Roo ah ree's words, she summoned every ounce of inner strength she possessed. "I'm going to have to sew it up. I'll need a candle."

"This I must see," smirked Heathcliff, pulling the candle nub and flint he'd taken from Hugh's shed from his pocket.

"Are you insinuating that I'm unreliable?" said Cathy, lighting the candle and handing it to him. She could see his pain plainly on his face; as usual he wouldn't admit it.

"It's not an insinuation," said Heathcliff; he tried to laugh, but winced instead. "When it comes to caring for the injured, you're useless."

"I've changed right under your nose, and you failed to notice." She stood and, with her hands on her hips, she wiggled her butt at him, her manner haughty.

"Really?" Heathcliff laughed; this was exactly the reaction she desired. "Then I apologize; show me. What will you use for thread?"

"This," she said retrieving a sewing basket stored in the linen cabinet for simple, quick repairs. "Close your eyes."

"Absolutely not, I need to observe you carefully. For my own safety."

"And what does that mean?" Kneeling beside him, Cathy squinted and attempted to thread the needle; truth be told needlework too was beyond her. "Hold up the candle; I cannot see."

With a whimper, Heathcliff did as ordered. "It means that you are not touching me unless I see that your eyes remain open while you stitch me up."

"You have my assurances," she said with authority, trying to divert him with banter.

"You said that just like Solicitor Green. _'You have my assurances, Mister Earnshaw. I have the matter well in hand,'_" Heathcliff intoned, imitating the man perfectly. "Only trouble is he never does; he always leaves something to chance, and Papa and I must find it."

"Please don't compare my assurances to that old fart's."

Heathcliff dissolved into laughter, exactly as Cathy wished. "Pray tell, how are your assurances any different than that legal gasbag's," asked the boy through his giggles.

"One, I am reliable, and two, I am gas free."

"Alright, but better do it quick, before I feel compelled to remind you that last statement is not true." At this a loud crack of thunder pierced the quiet, startling both children. It was followed by the pounding of rain upon the roof. "I rest my case, even the gods sit in judgment upon you."

"Hold the candle closer," said Cathy, wiping sweat from her brow. Heathcliff was right; she always closed her eyes while someone else did the patching up. And because of that she had no idea what to do, but nevertheless do it she must. With a deep fortifying breath, she finally got the thread through the needle. Afterward, pinching the skin on either side of the wound, she sunk the sharp point into Heathcliff's skin, pulling the thread taut. With the worst over she tied a neat knot and cut the needle free, Heathcliff didn't flinch, and his stoic bravery inspired her as the gash required two more stitches which she managed with aplomb.

"You'll need black drawing salve," she said with pride for she had acted with more courage than ever before.

"Here." Heathcliff pulled the small jar Hugh had given him from his pocket. "I need more draught."

"Just a sip. You'll fall asleep."

"What would happen if we drink the whole thing?"

"It would send us into a long, deep sleep; we might even die."

"I'm ready to slip away as long as we are together. I don't want to be drowned as a demon. Hindley and Nellie say they'll bury me at a crossroad where I'll be forced to haunt all who come my way. It sounds so dull; that's not how I wish to spend eternity. I'm not a demon, am I, Cathy?"

"I'll hear no talk of dying, Heathcliff, especially not after I just expended all that effort stitching you up. And no, you are not a demon. You are the best boy ever. If ever they did such a thing to you I should be buried with you as a suicide after I slash my wrists."

"But it wouldn't be dying exactly. Remember the picture from the book? We could go there."

"Which book? You are making no sense."

"The one where the children fly away into the night sky," said Heathcliff. His eyes had gone soft and dreamy, and Cathy found them bewitching in their beauty. When free of distress, Heathcliff was more handsome than any knight.

"The one where they are bewitched?" asked Cathy, forcing herself to look away from him so she might put away the needle and thread. Normally she would leave the mess for others straighten, but she wanted to erase any sign of their presence.

"Yes, they are made so tiny that they fly away in a wooden shoe turned winged boat with a drawing pen for a mast and silk handkerchief for a sail. How they did struggle to raise the mast." The boy smiled pensively, and Cathy recalled that this story had been his favorite when he'd first arrived at the Heights.

"And, though the witch who cast the shrinking spell follows them into the water, their sail catches a mighty gust of wind which sends the children careening down river at break neck speed," whispered Cathy, recalling the details. "All is well until a waterfall comes into view."

"When the children look down," said Heathcliff, staring into space as if the scene lay open before him. "The witch floats upon the roiling waters beneath, waiting for their inevitable fall. But Aeolus, god of winds, takes pity upon them, sending a gust of such force it fills the sails of the winged boat, lifting them into the stars.

"But the witch can fly too, and she follows them," growled Cathy.

"But just as she is upon them a hatch opens in what had before been the infinite dome of the Heavens. Beyond that break in the skies lies a new world the like of which is beyond comprehension."

"They know if they go through they might never return," said Cathy.

"Yet through that opening they fly for it is the only way they will ever be free of the witch that cursed them."

"_The Key to Shut and Open_. I remember," replied the girl, touching Heathcliff's grimy hand as if it were a treasure made of gold.

"Yes, that's the story. What was that place called?"

"Imaginal."

"Imaginal…We can drink the medicine and break through the Heavens to Imaginal together."

"You want to die?" asked Cathy, her heart filled with pity.

"Only if you do."

"No, no! I refuse; I considered it, but Roo ah ree has assured me it is not our time."

"Roo ah ree?"

"It was she who woke me. Otherwise I might have missed Hugh."

"She woke you? Is she real then?" asked Heathcliff.

"I don't know, but I asked her if we were bound for hell this very night."

"What did she say?"

"Hell is not for thee or he. It is a stranger fate awaits thee."

"That sounds just like her. But surely Imaginal is a stranger fate."

"Perhaps, but I am not ready to depart this world. Don't you want revenge anymore?"

"I want to climb into the wardrobe bed with you and be taken by sleep. I would go by my own hand rather than let them drown me."

"Fear not, Heathcliff; I know what to do."

"Cathy, do you hear the tempest outside?" he pleaded. "We'll not get far in this."

"Neither will anyone else."

"I'm done for. They will catch us and drown me. Let's go to your bed; I'll drink the rest of the draught and slip away."

"Nay, they won't drown you. and you'll not put an end to yourself. Put your trust in me."

But as Cathy said these words the sound of running footsteps came to them from the landing. Whoever made such a racket, they advanced quickly.

"Please Cathy, it's them."

Cathy looked into his eyes. "No!" she declared, though she found him difficult to resist.

"Will you turn me over to them then?"

"Never, now come with me."

"Where?"

"Don't ask questions just follow me."

Standing, Cathy held out her hand to the bedraggled boy. With a shrug he took it, as Cathy turned and opened the door to the linen closet. After a quick glance they made their way to the garret just across the hall. The room was used for storage, and it was full of antique junk; best of all it had a low ceiling with a skylight. Once inside she pushed a heavy old oak chair before the door and jammed it beneath the latch.

"Help me push this table underneath the skylight," Cathy ordered.

"Climb on the roof in this storm?"

"Don't worry; we only have to go a short distance."

"But there's lightning."

"I thought you were ready to die."

Heathcliff smiled; she had him there. "What if I am?"

"Shall we leave our destiny to the Lord of the Lightning?" she asked as they pushed the table beneath the skylight.

Heathcliff liked this turn of events immensely. "Yes! Oh Cathy, I should have trusted you; I just wish I had a sword."

"A sword? What good would that do?" said Cathy, scrambling onto the table with Heathcliff close behind.

"I should lift it to the Heavens and pray to the lightning god for aid." Saying this he unlatched the ceiling window and the two lifted it. Rain and wind poured through the opening as Heathcliff helped Cathy to the roof.

"Oh, Heathcliff, what a sight that would be. Surely the Sky God would reward such bravery."

Cathy turned and held out her hand, and Heathcliff took it. As he climbed through the opening, he heard the jammed door latch rattling, as someone shouted and tried to enter. Whoever it was they were too late, and he laughed as he made his way to freedom.


End file.
